We kiss until my lips are swollen, vascular
and pink in the rearview mirror, the Twenty Mile Bend a dark, open palm
outside my windshield. We hunker inside my Camry like Eskimoes
huddled in an igloo, encapsulated in our own ecosystem – humidity
at our hairlines, your tongue in circles on my neck like thumbprints
in the dirt, your fingertips on my spine, illuminating each vertebrae
individually, the only light to be found on this road, where the canals
run like arteries on either side, the skeletons of power plants
bare, the shuttered darkness like a layer of topsoil
on my car. We are nothing but organic,
a layer of the earth – crust, core, mantle – the stars, then my breasts
pressed to your chest, my thighs around your hips, magma
against silicate, as one element conforms to the other,
our motion back and forth like plates on the surface of the Earth, that chisel
and sway against one another.

***

Amanda Leal is a 27 year-old poet from Lake Worth, FL. Her work has been featured or will be featured in upcoming issues of Homology Lit, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Utterance Journal, Sky Island Journal, and others.
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