ribs act as prisons
poems by Ingrid M. Collins
ribs act as prisons
ribs act as prisons to nervous hearts,
oceans tremble outside open doors,
while we shiver with impatience...
unfold my petals with your mouth,
sink deep into their bloom
sip of their wine
imbibe—
graze your pout with my balm
heal what hurts...
you swim in my belly,
thousands of you—
a symphony
of pulp
that leaves no trace...
your thick spreads my wings,
I fly with your thrusts
we make love on the wing,
sleep on the wing
eat on the wing...
no time for reality
•
the storm was never healed
Residuals of ghosts
p a s s e d--
From veins to heels—
guiding reveries—
I have seen blood on snow--in the meadows of daydreams—
the contrast/
the colours
almost Holy--
How can one delight,
in such obvious savagery?
Revel in its perfect purity?
In this dream--
we are both blade and bandage
cunt and womb
trauma and soothing—
nervous fingers
feeling their way
over each other,
with a raptorial rage--
Our tryst,
our sharing,
is new scripture—
You and I
in coital lock,
limbs entwined,
drinking deep of each other’s exhalation—
—You are beautiful—
…in this dream
You split my atoms...
I spill your seed
You scour my depths,
You bring out the dead...
•
behind the veil
we fuck with the language of God on our lips
twitching and aching
glass eyes gaped to the heavens
show me anger and chivalry
send angels
have me drink from their unlatched carpus
forgive nothing
show me it was never mine
and slip your tongue in all my
my dark dens
sallow sap spittle
wet and shining on your casket
open earth recoiled
like snakes mounting trees
for rotten fruit
ancient fruit sugars
cue my vertebra to arch at your decree
bend me over pews
and send your lineage down my womb
watch my fertile pelt engorge
and swallow all the glory of regret
•
gipsy taroc
swelling milk veins
curb serpent fangs
hag arms wither
simple stimulation
buildings brimmed with faces
attached to bookcases
can't read hieroglyphs
even if its branded on soft skin
hot like cattle
“you don't own me”, she says
I belong to everyone
Ingrid M. Collins is a Salvadoran refugee residing in Los Angeles. She has been published in OCCULUM, Electric Cereal, Dryland, Seafom Mag, Anti-Heroin Chic, Bad Pony Mag, L’Éphémère Review, etc... After writing three chapbooks, Things Outside, Wayward, and Zenith, she continues to scribble nonsense into verse. She hopes it resonates. Find her rants at www.notesofadirtyyoungwoman.com & on Twitter @BrujaLamatepec.