My girlfriend’s breasts in my hands
are the weight of journeys
are the wait to get to her.
I came a long way
I fear the distance from me to her.
In dreams I am fit to burst
with spawn shaped like
a handful of oranges, or
grapes attached with viscera,
or a vast veined watermelon.
In dreams I fear
my bundle of child
When I kiss my mother I fear
that forgetful my tongue will slip
into her mouth,
so used am I to the press of breasts
& the softness of women’s throats.
This poem originally appeared in the tough-talking-but-reliably-honest Volume 7 of The Ampersand Review.
Kirsty Logan mostly writes about books and sex, both fictionally and non-fictionally. She is currently working on her first novel, Little Dead Boys, and a short story collection, The Rental Heart and Other Fairytales. Her short fiction has been published in around 80 anthologies and literary magazines, and broadcast on BBC Radio 4. She has a semicolon tattooed on her toe, and lives in Glasgow with her girlfriend in a flat full of guitars, chandeliers, and half-full notebooks. Say hello at kirstylogan.com.