talking to coconut oil

I have worn you like a sleeping man. I have worn you like a knife fight. you have worn me in different languages. all the shiny ways I am called. in the thin shadow of my cleavage, or my waistline, or the hidden backs of my teeth. you are my name if it was off the hook. you are my name if it was a river sometimes. then, you are my name in stone. a winter vixen. I say, surprise me. and you give me an inch of hair, soft angels of my withering brow. I love the way you wet my morning, like a child’s kiss. you, a dripping moon after a long shower. I part my skin from the high and dry, but not before your glossy permission. you make a way for a late cuddle. I am a
finger away from a lake and a boy can tell. the moon can tell and it used me to settle. the wind can tell and I am a long tide. my tricky girl, how you puff your chest in a cold night. give me a sweet dance on my neck, one with the light. make my eczema a wet sketch. if they should call us, the name will be different every time, like calling a mountain a pond. and we could laugh because we are high and low. we can trick god, bitch. we leave heaven and use hell on weekends, both dripping.

By Kara Jackson