Purple Urchin

You, my sweet
are a pool of strawberry
on the glass bed of a fairy tale.

Androgynous qualities:
the strength of the male and the female;
I love to watch you slick back your hair
–it’s like I’m injuring myself with your edge.

You stagger and stammer seaside
with a voice of a breaking teenager,
the call, the cackle of a wet whistle,
not yet full mettle.

You stagger and stammer seaside
with the poise of an urchin,
not quite ripe, not quite standing up-right,
not quite top side, not yet halved, haved.

You swagger with a smile only half as sweet
with the UK ice cream and the quartered Kit-Kat treat
sticking out, languishing
under your beeswax retreat
of unattended lips:
(fit girls only take whiffs
of cocoa butter and saccharine.)

And I only wanted to inhabit you for an hour.
Possession is a portion of the law.
I wanted to anticipate true love’s kiss
and the inevitable happily-ever-after crawl.
He’s the north side in his stroll and brawl
and covering it in his exhaust,
his vapor, his cigarette scrawl.


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