For Poseidon

Your guttural guitar strum I gorge on––
my snake tamer mother calls me Gorgon.

Throat constricts around the sound of pleasure––
Your sonnets fill my belly full, engorged.

I shove time, that rich lie, in my gullet––
it descends ambrosia dry down my gorge,

I rattle home in the rail car cold––
my mother observes, hisses “stop gorging,”

so instead I obsess over the words of
our conversations, I myself gorge

until I too become a stone carcass
that carnivorous creatures will gorge on.

I whittle body into desert bone,
so men like you look and call me gorges.

Midnight makes your red smeared mouth a dark gorge––
pomegranate seeds bleed like I have gorged

with the vultures of Death Valley, I pitch
off the slick edge into black a steep gorge.

Don’t gauge your steel temper and don’t gouge
God-death wounds until I become a gorge.

With the heavy work of speaking my “No”
in this cold air my lips become engorged.

Time flows through Medusa like a river
Medusa is fat nothing she is gorged.