
tracing Canis Major on a cloudy night
by James Helmick
I have heard little praise of that feeling of silk in
the folds of fingers, glass as dreams. Sunlight
devouring the sky in its jaws.
Little praise of my drowning my face in your pitch pupil.
At midnight all the black looks the same. Praise
my finger for how it glows bluer than skin
between the choker & nape of the neck, praise
the ice burn of the buckle & warm hairs
that tug & tug & tug, spilling
in the sauna of your maw when I press a thumb
onto your knife-edged fang & open up, wild vanilla
lush on your lithe & sandy tongue
my blood drops a stunning shade of purple.
Recurring dreams of wind
rushing through
my fur?
The song sounded like a perversion of music
in the rabid writhing of the instrumental, the
noise eroding the palate of the human ear.
From afar, I heard it
purring as lights pulsed color from basement concerts.
I curled up on the concrete,
prickly tail jostling with the circadian rhythm.
My memories clearer than ever.
Sometimes as a teen I would get on
my bike & ride until