Artwork by Sara Sultan. Image courtesy of the artist
For a thousand years,
I haven’t wanted to remember
how good it felt to be debased,
but now I want to return,
return to that alerted night,
when you walked on my face
with a thousand legs like a millipede,
as if you owned the place.
Something clarified in me
that fragrant night,
my blood as thick as butter,
and every hair on my body
stood up to welcome you,
and make a nest
for the thousand tiny eggs
you chose to lay.
By the next morning,
your exquisite eggs had fabergéd
into hatchlings I’d have to raise
alone, because you were gone,
like the moment was,
as if you’d never been.
I know you’re out there though,
skittering across someone’s face
on your thousand skinny legs,
and I know I’ll have to swim
a filthy river
just to lick your nutmeg
skin again and taste
how you taste, of mace.
~ Jeremy Freedman
Jeremy Freedman is a writer and artist in New York City. His poems have been published in Queen Mob’s, Cleaver, Alien Mouth, Eclectica, Otoliths and elsewhere. His photographs have been exhibited in Europe and the United States and have been recently featured in Hothouse, Redivider, the Monarch Review, the Citron Review and the Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review.
