rites of seepage

oh my gratin, you are lovely shirtless
           skinful baked in cheeses and the clippings
of the moon, oh a man cannot describe
           the jets of sweat and cinnamon that fall
to nether regions where hair meets hair,
           where air is frightened by the lack of loving
out tonight, it’s not enough to discipline
           the wind with wisps of saffron; cardamom
and fenugreek must speak in tongues
           of scent, oh a woman to a man is more
than whiskers bent or basting meat
           with juices, she is dominoes each one polka
-frosted like a cake, this meal is birthright
           like the bleeding of the thumb when lover
sucks the cut and tastes iron and the copper
           and the heart’s sweet electrolytes

BY TAYLOR MARDIS KATZ

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Taylor Mardis Katz is a poet and part-time farmer living in Vermont. Her poems have made an appearance on the radio, in a farmer’s almanac, in a seasonal quarterly focused on whole foods, in handmade chapbooks, and in literary journals such as The Connecticut Review and H_NGM_N. She was once told by a professor, “Every poem you write is a love poem,” and she was pleased as punch. Future plans include establishing a farm with her partner, eating in abundance the fruits of her labor, and inviting everyone to join her. She keeps a scroll online at panacheperhaps.com.