Hunter/Gatherer

Joshua Toumu’a (he/him) 

Once again, I have looked upon Desire like the sun and they left a lavender bag of themself in my pillowcase. I stow my fears, bind them in cloth, 

and lie deep into early morning. 

The sun rises: my body turns anew 

and my hands are ripe with fresh cherries, 

soft pink on my fingertips. 

I swallow your offering; your grip tightens. 

They sit in my throat like a foreign body 

meets an unforeign body. 

The sun sets: my body turns anew 

and we become acts, entwined 

the way a coat would wear a jacket. 

My body has become something to give to you like a wildcat dragging prey to its den. 

For now, I am your modern-day Eucharist: 

you’ve always looked for a higher power to believe in. Your eyes worship, I ache. 

The night ends and I bind myself in cloth. Forgive me, your heart is prone to wanting; 

mine falters like a stopped clock. 

The sun rises and I am already forgetting the one, the many. Desire’s hot hands trace my body, but I fear I have not missed their absence, 

their wanton, their hospitality. Forgive me, 

you grow lonesome in my absence; 

my body turns anew.