
By Yoda Olinyk
Copyright ©2025
One moan is never enough—I search all night for God
in your folds. Your buttermilk hips buck into my bridge
and my cherry wine noseguts are splayed across the sheets,
enough for you to rush me to the hospital. We giggle
as I list ‘overachiever’ as a pre-existing condition, as my firehose
nostrils leak lust onto my hospital gown. You’re my emergency
contact so I flash the nurse your inkname, snug in my bottom
lip. The next morning, each tastebud is a succulent
earning your rind, still bruised from last night’s brawl
with your, sleep, we need sleep. My delirious hummingbird
hunger spreads feral across honeysuckle peachpot, panting
heavy for another crumb of your
solar-flare-moon-beam-angel-wing-ocean-flesh.
About Yoda Olinyk:
Yoda Olinyk (she/they) loves to make people comfortable, which is too bad because she is a poet. Their poems have been published with Button Poetry, The Shore, Sky Island Journal, and in many other beloved journals. Yoda works full-time as a writer and abortion doula - you can find more of Yoda's work at www.doulaofwords.
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