Sprawl

Carly Madison Taylor

That night you did an innocuous little favor

one of your sleights of hand, appeared in a place

I’ve never seen a man before. The first kiss we didn’t

get. The one we got perfect. You did not hold me

you poured me into myself until I overflowed

you warm, alive, heavy heavenly body

there became nothing else. When we’d wrap at the ankle

hours were star lifetimes, when we wrapped ourselves

in silver light like the first night you asked to watch

while I rode you we left each other’s haunted parts alone

we curled we became we unfurled and splattered.

Your face at the circus during the trampoline routine

your face when you explain, when you worry, sprawl

asleep between my arms and hush. When you fill 

my lungs with the softest freeze, bury deep and stay

out of sight. Skin honored by your skin. Hold just that laugh

I saw twice at the same bar, curve of my back under

your hand in line for popcorn, undoing of knots

braided blindly in the years I wanted to become closed.

You open me. You have opened me. I am free.

Carly Madison Taylor is a poet, songwriter, painter, and essayist living in Buffalo, NY. They earned their BA in Creative Writing and Dance Studies from Knox College in 2016. More of their work can be found at Crêpe and Penn, Ghost City Review, The Shore, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, and elsewhere. They're on Twitter @carma_t and Instagram @car_ma_t.