Latte, No Whip
There is a bitch outside
barking for her master.
You are putting quarters in the dryer
Carousel, pinwheel, just above my head.
Merry-go-round. I ride.
I am not at all merry.
I whimper and hit the ground,
prepared for the shameless baring of belly.
Suspended in the spin, I pant in the heat
Supplicant and still
until you remove my collar
with hands I will never bite.
I seek meaning.
My chin is wet.
Waiting for the Storm
We walk, but backwards, eyes and curtains closed,
pre-destined for a crash: my tongue, your throat.
Reiterate, apologize, devote:
your jugular is all you need expose.
With but one buckle murderously taut,
negotiate inebriated breath.
You’ll plead, impatient for my little death:
one nucleoid-corrupted promise wrought.
Command condensed scorched wine or tears or sweat,
whose will illumines gravity aflame.
Decelerate with temperance chaste shame:
crude lingua franca chokes each silhouette.
Drowned clavicle in rivulets of white:
you’ll beg me one more time tomorrow night.
Biography
Michelle Cristiani teaches reading and writing at Portland Community College in Portland OR. Her prose and poetry were nominated for Pushcart Prizes in 2023 and 2024. She has recent erotica in the anthology Crowded House by Cleis Press, and horroerotica in the anthology Devilish Deals by Thurston Howl Publications. You can find her at heart-pages.com and on Twitter @heart_pages.