If I can’t make a home in his chest I’ll settle with his pelvis.
The little cottage by his aorta is burnt black and uninhabitable so I dorm down
deep near his vas deferens; I spend my time stirring cakes,
I decorate with flours, sprinkle the whole
space with cinnamon sugar sweets.
I’m a woman of glands and saliva, I star in short skits on slow nights;
I am interesting for as long as there’s heat in his skin,
auditioning for the pile of broken beams
by his ribs; I splay floor plans on my back,
hope he takes the time to skim them.
I like playing cathouse girl, my bakery in his hips.
But I daydream about swimming up his spinal cord, reclaiming the heap;
I’d build from the dirt up,
paint every inch sunbeam gold,
I’d crack all the
let the light
Makenzie Smith is a student in the Creative Writing Program at a small college in the American South. She has never been previously published.