Cycle | poem

I used to pour the last drop
of tea down the drain. That was
before the fall, before every crumbling
piece was a ceramic wing,
before an inner solstice
had begun. I was a tool
for gods to use. Now, I am
their voice.

I drink the last drop
while the moon stretches, on the edge
of ecstatic orgasm. Think of
the oceans that wouldn’t exist
without our tears,
or holes in the earth, empty
without our blood. Think of the walls
we broke to build new ones.

I drink the last drop
while two girls across the street
stumble in high heels
like children playing dress-up.
I would too, if I knew
how to follow lamplight.
But I’m not quick to kick, spinning
into the night like a leaf - no, I am
and cold.

I am the the final swig,
the ending sip.
I am the seed you never spilled,

but drank ‘til the last drop.


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