by Amy Sprague

I have lost the need to be someone.
It’s strange that when
You have one piece left of so many selves
And it breaks, shattering your familiar
reflection, You–annihilated in the howling–
and a certain amount of time
will stop mattering as it goes on, and
You pool into something–a fine new liquid–
black beneath the swollen moon,
and then, a tender solid thing.
An awakened body and mind
Cast about in the water’s mad rush,
not afraid of its depth anymore.
A woman now. And a fire stirs–a heat
I’ve never heard of.
No one ever told me I would rise to
occasions on my own accord.
No one ever told me the soul
Is a hungry, insatiable thing
That pulses so right once
the wounds and lesions turn to scars.
I am thirsty. I am watching. I am waiting
for something I cannot name.
And then there’s this body–a fire–
That stirs heavy and angry and lovely.
I am ablaze in this winter, beneath
that same moon,
following me and my erotic mysteries.
Everything now has a taste
and a scent that I follow
Curious to know, desperate to touch.
Lust festers in me like
lightning shocks With a
steady under-current of mood.


One thought on “Undercurrent

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