CELL

Sheets of rain hare across heat-cracked blacktop,
an ever-world shrouded in storm:
a constant cleaving––each moment now two.

They press into on another,

urgent/thrum/lips/full/as/sun-plump/berries/mouths/charged/panting/copper/tongues/
warm/skin/on/skin/fingers/push/aside/soaked/cotton/hip/bones/thrust/two-digit fuck/
earthy/balm/necks/exposed/chins/tipped/to/torrent/hair/like/hemp/across/drenched/faces

Heresy swirls about muddied toes––
chambered sound permits no sin,
cools purple contusions of hate.

Just this kiss, lingering long after lightning,
as concussed as plunging rumbles of thunder.

The tempests pass––and as they part
evening steals forth in cricket gospel.

Gina Marie Bernard is a heavily tattooed trans woman. Her daughters, Maddie and Parker, share her heart. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best Micro-Fictions, and The Pushcart. She is completing her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Arkansas, Monticello.