Necessary Humidity

The day was mean and sweating
(a lazy leaking
too big
for any amount of ocean)
so
we climbed inside
the heady weight of an egg
blood boil.
The ground was a thick red mud path
and the eggs suspended
everywhere
slipping across the back roots of Louisiana.
The heat fed us with a
necessary humidity,
and we took a
smaller boat
to wade through the guts
and the watery insides of
each other.
All parts were damp,
but misery was not an option
as his hand swam on my wrist.
I fell in love
300 times
in succession
with the swell
of his slickly salted smack of lips.
I never did think
my tongue could hold
too many spices
for his weak stomach,
so
I let it snake out
between upper flap and
lower,
speaking like a sea-master of the bayou.
I think we became
liquid
as we reached a ravine
with fallen tree over water,
and he asked me to cross with him,
the fearless fight
of a worm
that repels the fish’s bite.
I did not wriggle away from
the fear of that
slick stab of pain
or the knowledge of melting.

______________________

April Michelle Bratten is currently tucked away in the peaceful Badlands of North Dakota.  She co-edits the online literary journal Up the Staircase.