Ache in Fourth Degree

We’re in my bedroom & you have a pack of cards. 
         You show me a king with diamonds bruised black

& I remember. Later, I’ll be told this was how I said yes. 
         The windows were shucked out clean & the moon gave

nothing but drizzling teeth. My hands were smudged, mouth 
         of a minnow but you don’t say anything. The forest is dripping

thunder & we are in my bedroom. Downstairs, nothing plays. 
         A clawing at the door, a clawing at the mirror frame. The king

wrenches the red off his face & later, I’ll be told this was a grape 
         half-dried, a bloodless cherry sucked from its stem. Later, wasp

blood smeared on my thighs, chewed teeth until the doors close. 
         I’m not waiting for the ax anymore. Now, thrummed fingers, velvet

tongue, hips of an elegy, knees the color of a hive smashed open. 
         At tea, our fathers crack almonds, look at our faces, but not our

eyes.


by Yasmin Belkhyr

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Yasmin writes. Her poetry has been/will be in PANK, Waxwing, Hobart, decomP, and on Verse Daily. Her work has also been showcased at MOMA P.S 1, the Lincoln Center, the Kennedy Center, and the U.S Hall of Nations. Yasmin runs Winter Tangerine Review and works on being a better person. Send her letters of love, hate and indifference at yasminbelkhyr.com.