the poetry that matters

 Michelle Miller


Michelle Miller is a queer-feminist writer of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. She has had works published in The Danforth Review, Black Heart Magazine, Oh! Magazine, and others. Her first full-length book, an investigation into how feminists look and what that means for the movement, is forthcoming from Sumach Press in Spring 2008. She lives in Vancouver with her partner and attends UBC's Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program. Her work has been categorized as "hostile erotica." You can stalk Michelle on the internet at http://www.michellemiller.ca/






bringing the gods down on bodies who collide.
my lover has hair of fire, hot with passion, fevered with lust, a small perfect shapely mouth, pink but not of candy, nothing artificial here, my lover's mouth is a mother's breast, my thirst to tongue and suck, caress and love this mouth, to seal this mouth around my centre and live on and under, around and in this mouth is the desire to couple with the gods, to gain sustenance from fucking, some possibility of immensity in this mortal state: someday I will die but until then I will live, at odds or in congruence with divine right, all the colours of potentiality in my lover's small mouth.  this mouth, whose perfect pink flesh gates supple deep red tissue, small perfect teeth, that tongue which pulses and plays with my mouth, my nipples, my teeth, my tongue, everything of mine larger, imperfect, hot and wet though, fertile almost sinister in my desire to consume her mouth, to bash my big body against hers, small and lithe, to do harm to her, to leave a mark so, when this is past, my hand can run over this white skin and find that place, know the fluidity of time, I am here, I am not here.  some small scar, a fingernail mark, a crescent moon, a permanent bruising, swirls of fingerprints, a burn, searing tongue and flesh bent beneath the impossible element of another body.

I long to put my mouth on her and speak unsayable words, language lost in the fall, words spread by serpents, words held still by seer crones, by those out of context, those few on whom the wrath of the gods comes down, I wish myself to bring down the gods inside her, listen to her own blasphemous orgasm, soaked with sweat and slick with desire, my hand on a small breast, my hand on a pulsing clit, a beating heart beneath the skin, breath catching in a lovely throat, sly and tempting, her head to one side, eyes closed, the sound and taste and smell of her driving my need, rising rising until there's nowhere left in this small universe to house all of that desire.  she pulls me up from my adoration, kissing my mouth, passing back and forth her orgasm until our heat dissolves it.  kissing hard, pushing wombs together, soft pliable skin, body yields to hers, enters hers, I can't possibly get close enough, I'm shocked at how awake I am, how my body feels so intensely these moments of writhing.  this thigh between my thighs, this cunt, slipping on my skin, the wet of orgasm stinging the skin on our legs, this sweet frictive motion, rubbing raw.  how long have we lain this way?  she whispers, sex soaked, I have no idea what time it is.  laugh, kiss, lick the place below her bottom lip, run my hand along her collarbone, love the sound of her, bemused.  tremble at the sound of her,

bodies smashing, space invaded, speaking softly with faces close together, lust, smelling, listening for noises of pleasure, for the point when it becomes painful, sensitive skin rubbed.  but there's something to all this friction, the electric crackle of want, the smooth cool sliding of ease, the laughing, the shouting, the enjoyment, the play.  neighbours defacing our apartment door: slut in deep red blood virgin blood, sliced from the artery: dyke in expired semen, spilled from sexual bowels. I want to show you to them, if they could see you in the flesh, fully nude and smiling, green eyes closed but beautiful behind pale lids and lashes, they'd come to see the necessity of boldness at night in your freckled arms, of dripping in your cum, of tonguing your breast, of urging myself against you, of courting, duelling, Christ calls into the darkness, of your lady voice raising the holy name, glorifying the moment, bringing desire I'm sure to god himself, that god whose name I cry out not in vain but in the fullness of transcending experience, a god resentful of girls whose bodies collide.


Bookmark and Share