by Eli Sobel
She says it’s a fetish,
This word she pronounces, scowling,
As if it tastes of salt.
This fetish, she says, is of wanting
To be swallowed
Whole. A sexual consumption.
Her brows arch as she describes
This preposterous want,
A smug cue that I shouldn’t understand it.
But I’d find it appealing,
An unburdening, to tuck myself in another,
Be useful, sustaining.
I dream of pleasure that comes
With relieving my body
Of its responsibility for its own space,
A ceasefire of the questioning—
How much do I inhabit,
Who do I let inside,
Why does every name feel incongruous—
And suddenly this anachronistic lust
Is a broker of peace,
A validation of the negative space
For which I starve.
Eli Sobel (they/them): I write from my belief in the radically queer, the revolutionary blurring of binaries, boundaries, and expectations.