Catapult | Poetry

First Nude

How to put this: I’m alive.

Shira Erlichman — FIRST NUDE

out of breast-spill and squashed butternut sun.
It’s almost-night, a nipple definites
the sheets. How to put this: I’m alive. So
I gift my coming coffin coffee beans
and sex—not with anyone, just the lens.
Purr, nether engine, private as spit.
No need to pray. The Buddha’s breath touches
even this: warm undervoice twixt the thighs.
You could say beehive misbehaving, or
just pussy will do. Wet lens. Legs spread. Lord,
there’s nothing you would say to steal me from
me. Moon moves across collarbone. Find me
in a black room, same hour that loved Jesus.