by Neda Ravandi

Take me by the open throat and

run me ragged,

heavy-bellied press of my body into your body and

we are one body,

we are shinbone fibula metatarsals.

I have teeth do you want to see them.

Lightning-rod believer,

reflect me back into your stratosphere.

Your fingers follow:

My body my your body my our body.

Last night I stole your eyes.

You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.

Rusty-penny-colored iris,

Sticky black of the pupil.

Now they are in the pocket of my winter coat,

the good one I got on sale last June–

June when the junebugs bugged you and

you drank me moonshine-blind

under stars that dripped down.

Sweat me out so you can see again.

Give me a knuckle sandwich I’m starving for it.

Let me champ at the bit for a while

before you smoke me out of your sheets.

Can you wash me

the next time you put in a load?

Can I lie there, sudsing in the wet-hot dark?

Your eyes are still in a coat in my closet.

I’m sorry. I forgot to give them back.

Neda Ravandi is an Iranian-American writer from Texas. An alumnus of the Iowa University and Kenyon Review writing workshops, she has work published in So to Speak journal, and forthcoming in the Eunoia Review and EDGE CITY volume 1. She loves Letterboxd, Anne Carson, and the sun, among other things.