by Joseph Gorrell

Sticky fingers prod at closed wounds
Grappling for the tangy, tart juice
But I have run dry—
Wrinkled, rotten, emptied.

Still, they press into this flesh
Hoping to tap into something worthwhile.
I’m no ocean—
Not in depth, nor in will.

Yet, more gently, they massage
Begging for a drink.
Irate, I lash out— 
“There is nothing!”

Suddenly, nectar floods me.
Smiling, they replenish me
And speak tenderly— 
“There is you.”

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About the author: Joseph Gorrell is a queer writer residing in Chicago, IL. He spends his days teaching middle school students and his nights writing, drawing, and or playing Pokémon–often with a cat curled up in his lap. He has had past works published in Rowayat, The Gay & Lesbian Review, and Failed Haiku Journal.