When They Come for Us What Will I Say of You
That my fist never knew the inside of you,
never folded itself into its most careful shape
for the submitting then, once deep, twisted
so you howled like something holy, extending
a slow finger or two, unrested, sweat-furled,
contours plumbed. Bent, they call us. Puncher.
Diver. It's true, everything I do with my hands
won't be contained. I'm a deviant crescendo,
forever chasing planes that slope and curve,
opposite of a jack-knife. And yet, I penetrate.
And yet, the day we met I cried, somewhere
sharp inside of me opening, a taste like blood
and dismantling, my raveling breaking apart,
making way for a flayed communion of stars.
Betsy Housten is a double Sagittarius queer writer and massage therapist, and winner of an Academy of American Poets award. Her writing appears in Bone & Ink Press, Entropy, Glassworks, Lunch, Longleaf Review and many other places. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best New Poets, and Best of the Net. She lives in New Orleans, where she is pursuing her MFA in poetry. Find her on Twitter @popcorngoblin.