Read More: A Q&A with Maggie Finch
lunar confessions
i have a slumber party with the full moon. in the haven of my bedroom, we pass a joint back and forth until i cannot remember to pass it back anymore. basking in her glow, we delight in whispered secrets. with a devilish glint in her eye, the moon tells me of her devotion to the sun, of bathing in the sun’s light, soft like rose petals caressing skin. i would follow him anywhere, she says, no end of the galaxy too far. and as the world tips my mattress on its axis and time drips warm and divine like melted chocolate, the moon asks about you. sets a hidden ember alight in my chest. you for whom the inside of my cheek is bitten and swollen from all my thinking and swallowed confessions. how i wish to be spread open with gentle hands like the pages you read. and at your altar, let me savor every lyrical syllable on my tongue until it dissolves like sugar. warm like fresh coffee to wash down poetry. with blushed cheeks, i sigh to the moon that i have dreams of being surrounded by your sonnets, each line a silky ribbon to adorn the curves of my body. in another universe, i whisper into the moon’s beams, i am not the only one kneeling at the altar. she squeezes my palm when she tells me the impossible happens all the time.
horoscope for a sunday
scorpio, love is tender on sundays. let the pink champagne of sunrise pour across your eyelashes, awakening you with a gentle flutter of eyelids. feel soft sheets roaming across your naked body when you’d rather it be familiar hands. stretch cat-like into the arms of your lover, and make honeyed sounds in his ear to stir him awake. when that doesn’t work, whisper the dirtiest joke you know or threaten to start singing his least favorite christmas song (it’s “last christmas” by wham! for the record). savor the way his sleepy smile spreads from dimple to dimple, the way you’re held tighter, the miracle of his irises when doused in sunlight, the poetry of his bottom lip. chase wave after wave of pleasure in the morning, scorpio. let little rivulets of sweat trickle down your spine, blessing your tattooed skin with a glow. bite collarbones and shoulders with reverence, each bruise an offering. in this holy space, names are sung with the desperate intonation of your favorite swear word (it’s “fuck” for the record). feel the sweet hymns travel across your skin. when you wake up a second time, scorpio, muscles lazy and love-sore, accept a segment of blood orange from your lover in bed. sink your teeth into its delicate skin. let the juice drip down your chin, only to be kissed away. steal the crossword puzzle from the newspaper and attempt to do it in pen while your lover reads a book. beg for blueberry pancakes and get your way. trade long-lost dreams with your lover under the blessed waters of a late morning shower. linger in the heat, enveloped by arms that love you. skin pressed to skin, love on sundays is an altar, scorpio, and devotion is the prayer.
lucky numbers: 7,13,121
lucky symbols: rabbits, the color red, sunflowers
moon phase: new moon in taurus
multiverse theory […]
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this is not a poem about frank ocean. […]
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Maggie Finch is a Wisconsin-grown writer. She is the author of A Series of Little Damnits (Ghost City Press 2021). When Maggie is not writing, she enjoys reading romance novels, doing aerialist arts, and drinking too much iced coffee. More of her words can be found in Mistake House, Pidgeonholes, Hobart, and elsewhere.
Read More: A Q&A with Maggie Finch