by Okla Elliott
I will walk you through the desert, all wolf-
wolf and blood-sandy paws. O smooth rapture
of elegant neck—O underwear hanging
on comic cactus—water-plant, prick-plant
of need. I will lead you through strange danger,
one million nights of apocalyptic lust.
Gone giddy, I’ll lick lasciviously
your Lilith lips, lunge, leap, and lie back down.
What am I saying? All sense has left me.
There’s a zero at the bottom of this pit.
There’s a note of desert music in us.
There’s no need of sense, only our senses.
You will walk me wolfily into new need,
and our oasic images will mirror-mirage.
This poem was previously published in South Dakota Review.