Godless, we press our tongues
against the pale moon
through fogged and glistening
car-glass, then down each other’s
throats, contrasting warmths and
wetnesses, wondering how it would feel to die
in a manner anatomically impossible. All
implausible, under that same moon.
In the only places legends are
permitted to be true; under cover of darkness
or buckling polymer sunroof, under
hailstorm, in domain of
no deity, of thick
tongues, of courage and
eclipse on a late Sunday afternoon.
Emma-Louise Adams is a disabled lesbian writer masquerading as a history student in Sheffield, UK. They have dabbled in everything from visual art to musical performance, before finding their home in writing, joining the Rose Quartz Journal and Vessel Press as a regular contributor. For updates on their latest literary—and not-so-literary—endeavours, you can find them on Twitter and Instagram @elaecrire.