ANNA JOURNEY
Night with Eros in the Story of Leather (2)
We do
lose what we never had.
—Beckian Fritz Goldberg
To exorcize my demon, he licks
the edge of my widow’s peak
in the middle of a winter cotton field. His hot tongue
slurs ivory
goats of steam
from my forehead. They rise, sinuous
as scents of gin off the junipers—little
mouthfuls burning. He wants my
latest confession. I say, Fine
but no kiss—
only leather: muzzle, bit, collar to wrist,
wrist behind back, behind silver
spiked bodice. Do you mind if I enter
your dream? he asks. The one where the Holstein
is stung by barbed wire. She drags her blue
entrails smoking through the ginger grove. Do you mind
if I interpret? I gag him, grind my
red boot over breastbone. He dreams the smell of ginger root
cracked by the panicked
cow’s hooves, her scattered
blood-iron in the spear grass. Then, his breath
at the back of my neck, his glance
choke-chained, breathlessly
telepathic. My demon
stamps inside like a starved goat—black
hoof on my tongue,
its bitter eggplant. My lips
won’t hold long
their cloven shapes
or his song: Blue thistles
bloomed in cities. I can’t stop—
the story
going like the tongue goes:
lit and loosed, moving,
like Lucifer,
down. 
Contributor’s
notes
Clockwork Erotica: Why He Takes Off His Glasses
When Telekinesis Fails 
Elegy: I Pass by the Erotic Bakery
He Has Given His Face to the Waters of the Lake
Letter to the City Bayou by Its Sign: Beware Alligators
The Mirror's Lake Is Forever
Introductions: A Reading Loop
Tracking the Muse | Everyone Needs A Little Thanatos