Flesh


A bird, a bug, a something flying in the air,
And I’m spinning, unwrapping this present,
You touch me, and I feel spools of yellow and periwinkle blossoming inside,
My organs are gone and all I have is sex,
Displacement of what?
Is skin the organ that holds sex in place, or is it sex itself?
Flesh is more than skin,
The flesh of my shoulders is a bruise which moves as I walk and talk,
Which shifts like an earthscape,
Reminding me sharply of your touch.
The flesh of my upper chest is boutonnièred with your toothprints,
My wrists are circled in blue and violet.
Is flesh the reminder, or is it the slow molasses feeling of coming as it slides from my throat to my cunt and down my legs when I think of looking at you?

I wash my flesh each morning,
The hot water and scented soap cleaning dreams from my skin,
So that memories have a place to nest.

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About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a genderqueer San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran. They live with their Maine Coon cat, Lulu, and bake yeasted waffles every Sunday morning. Behrouz Gets Lucky is their first novel. You can find their erotic short stories sprinkled in various anthologies, including Best Lesbian Erotica 2015 and Sex Still Spoken Here. Avery is currently working on a book of more of Behrouz and Lucky's shenanigans, a memoir, and an illustrated early reader children's book about a eight year old transgender boy and his family.
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