Echolocation Magazine

ALT Kink Imani Davis The moon assumes her voyeuristic perch to find the rut of me, releashed from sense, devoid of focus ’cept by your design. I never thought restraint would be my thing. Then you: the hole from which my logic seeps, who bucks my mind’s incessant swallowsong & pins the speaker’s squirming lyric down with ease. You coax a measured flood, decide the scatter of my breath & know your place— astride the August heat, your knuckles tight around a bratty vers, a fuschia gag: you quiet my neurotic ass, can still the loudness murmuring beneath my skull. Be done. There’s nothing more to say.