ribs act as prisons

poems by Ingrid M. Collins

ribs act as prisons

ribs act as prisons to nervous hearts,
oceans tremble outside open doors,
while we shiver with impatience...

unfold my petals with your mouth,
sink deep into their bloom
sip of their wine
graze your pout with my balm
heal what hurts...

you swim in my belly,
thousands of you—
a symphony
of pulp
that leaves no trace...

your thick spreads my wings,
I fly with your thrusts

we make love on the wing,
sleep on the wing
eat on the wing...

no time for reality

the storm was never healed

Residuals of ghosts
p a s s e d--
From veins to heels—

guiding reveries—

I have seen blood on snow--in the meadows of daydreams—
the contrast/ 
the colours
almost Holy--
How can one delight,
in such obvious savagery?
Revel in its perfect purity? 

In this dream--
we are both blade and bandage
cunt and womb
trauma and soothing—

nervous fingers
feeling their way
over each other, 
with a raptorial rage--

Our tryst, 
our sharing, 
is new scripture—

You and I
in coital lock, 
limbs entwined, 
drinking deep of each other’s exhalation—

—You are beautiful—

…in this dream
You split my atoms...
I spill your seed

You scour my depths, 
You bring out the dead...

behind the veil

we fuck with the language of God on our lips
twitching and aching
glass eyes gaped to the heavens

show me anger and chivalry
send angels
have me drink from their unlatched carpus

forgive nothing
show me it was never mine
and slip your tongue in all my
my dark dens

sallow sap spittle
wet and shining on your casket

open earth recoiled
like snakes mounting trees
for rotten fruit

ancient fruit sugars

cue my vertebra to arch at your decree
bend me over pews
and send your lineage down my womb

watch my fertile pelt engorge
and swallow all the glory of regret

gipsy taroc

swelling milk veins
curb serpent fangs

hag arms wither  
simple stimulation

buildings brimmed with faces
attached to bookcases
can't read hieroglyphs
even if its branded on soft skin

hot like cattle

“you don't own me”, she says
I belong to everyone

Ingrid M. Collins is a Salvadoran refugee residing in Los Angeles. She has been published in OCCULUMElectric CerealDrylandSeafom MagAnti-Heroin ChicBad Pony MagL’Éphémère Review, etc... After writing three chapbooks, Things OutsideWayward, and Zenith, she continues to scribble nonsense into verse.  She hopes it resonates. Find her rants at www.notesofadirtyyoungwoman.com & on Twitter @BrujaLamatepec.