by K. Bradford

I lay you down
in a forest bed
drink your honeymilk
tender on my lips
trailing down each curve
I bury my head
in your sweet fire

I've been told
we cannot make a child
you and I

We try, oh we try
Calling in the divas
to lend a hand

We press
each other deep
into folds of bark and fern

red berries crush
between us
stains like flowers
that grow amidst our flesh

and by nightfall
wash hues
where we mingle
once more

in the silence
that tells me:

it is this story
growing between us
that we bare.