Poetry on The Feminista
The Taste of Skin, The Unraveling
An Experiment in Touch, in Voice, in Body
There is a sound
the fingers make
sliding, soft
sliding silk on skin —
a tremble, a tongue
in the hollow curve
of my shoulder —
the softest breath, a brush,
a quiet clawing, oh,
how the body
tells its tale.
My skin remembers
hands, remembers lips, remembers
how to arch, how to gasp,
how to pulse and open
under that familiar weight.
Here, I am liquid,
spilled over, I am nothing
and I am raw, I am
spreading into this world
with an ache, with
an endless, eager hunger
swallowing the dark whole.
In the fold of night, I am
what I have learned to name,
and I am nothing named, unnamed,
I am fierce as hunger —
an animal untouched, untouched.
I am unfurled, I am
a hundred wanting fingers,
a heart that howls,
a sigh waiting to burst
into the tremor
of morning.
I’m Ani Eldritch, Senior Editor of The Feminista. If you identify as a woman, come, write for us! If you’re interested, here are the submission guidelines. And, of course, thank you for reading.
