"Four Fingers as Sinister Lover" by Kyle McCord

Four fingers barks into my box of bones.
My bones (brittle) are a chorus to which
he’d replied, “Wind sings its circular time.”

Or sex. We sit in a room and suck
each other’s tongues. It’s not love.
It’s arsenic. It’s oil licking oil, licking light,

begging arson bear its action upon the body.
Hot and horny for treason, is four fingers.
Fallow as her old blood became,

he wilts before her will, hungry in her
arms. “Why, monshere, measure
out our weaknesses drip by drop?”

For four fingers think often of my crotch
with its unseen events, its untidy theater,
its comings & goings, its doing & undoings.

“Who are you to lay so royal?” mocks four fingers.
“For that matter, who are you to ascribe my epoch?”
for four fingers are four springs,

drawing salmon out of sky,
rust out of rustic season,
my heart from the gloam of well.