sticky is a plunge into a pool of olive oil. sticky is the bastard child of Venus and St. Claire. sticky is the static humming of a marble statue. sticky is the sunlight trapped inside its pages. sticky is poetry by Jacob Forquer.
The Elasticity of Skin
Lazy paint on the wall above our heads,
drips dried and thick, feel like skin
stretched taut over a joint.
When I move my fingers over the back of her neck her hair is thin enough to roll into
the grooves of my fingerprints
and she hums like I am not listening.
Our palms run together, this time not cutting, and it sounds like
the pages of an old book rubbing.
Her skin is long and soft
and short and hot and cold.
It flows when it moves, when she moves.
Epigraph on a successful headstone
He went on to be a stern father, making very little impact on the world.
[The sun caught…]
The sun caught
in the vineyard lines
looks like trembling spider webs.
The roadkill on the shoulder have fallen to the shape
of the tragedies of greek gods carved out of flawless marble, matted hair not out of place.
In Keeping Sure Hair Stays Short
I have a handful of fingers.
Those are fists
and you have two of them. They fall as pipes do
and break up sunlight. You do not call
with avian intent
or roll over fence tops
like a robin.
Your skin is tight
and good for snapping. Do you know
why your eyes are blue?
It is because you
cried too much
when you were young. You have no cock;
that is a penis.
You won’t make love
but fuck like rummaging. You will not get handsome or look kissed by Adonis.
There is braille
coming through on my skin.
Those are goose pimples; do not blush
with that girl and that boy during the night.
You are not hard
so work inside fields, growing hands as you must. Jump face down
and embrace it
but do not let them hear you. Do not show the sound
of your voice,
Do not fall down.