issue five / mosaic
[Wanting] [et. al], or Jesus Christ was a Butch Lesbian Vampire
Nell Kriegel
It was dawn all day and then some
when you first had me — under the shush, shush
branches of the old wisteria in vampiric heat;
dead September weather, the kind that holds close
to the neck, like lips to skin, skin to teeth.
Everything was coming up blackberry: our fingers [in our
mouths] blood-ripe and dripping sweet metallics.
Beads of sweat crowned your forehead
in bloody flashes. Like, come on. You hear this right?
I mean, Jesus. Could you get any holier than thou?
Would you want me less if I said that, like a seer
wanting of time? You want me
wanting, no?
The sunset waterlogged itself red in
salted, convex rims and ran from leading
questions; a smile had split your face and teeth
[like thorns] [gold-rusted crowns]
burst through the plum mess.
You said something funny
with your mouth and your hands [I’m bleeding].
You could've said anything: a fruit-bat squeal,
blood oath bender in your bite.
You could’ve said anything at all.
I know what I heard [taste me].
And when the crest of Summer
launched its [sticky] hand into the [wet]
gasp of Autumn, you came to me tender-handed
rather than well-loved. Bruised [fruit against fruit].
Your body cast light like cicada shells
on the front porch. You peeled at your lip
like skin [leatherrind and erotic] — I imagined
an exoskeleton. like yours would glow in a minor key.
You’d sung, then. Choirless but nonetheless resonant.
You’d said [listen] something [I’m listening] about Flesh,
with knuckles caged around [bleeding] cherry pits,
It’s only superficial if you have no imagination.
Something like that [forgive me].
The pits were cupped to your breastbone.
Red [wept] between twin [smile wide]
scars and your shirt was discarded
like Spanish moss, [hung] from the porch railing.
The listing evening light insinuated bloodlust,
insisted [or maybe that was me] you tore out
your heart as a token of veneration.
A bleedin’ heart, I[a heretic]’d called you then,
drawl put on and dragging like a warm body.
Your canines flashed like [split] cherries,
white highlights scoring jeweled flesh.
Bleedin’, you echoed[oed] [d], in that ageless,
wanting way — kinda desperate [hyena-like and filthy]
like you wanted under my skin.
You’re polite. It’s a gift. You waited for an invite.
And, ‘cause we’re all guilty of indulgence,
you waited ‘till sunset too [and all was forgiven].
when you first had me — under the shush, shush
branches of the old wisteria in vampiric heat;
dead September weather, the kind that holds close
to the neck, like lips to skin, skin to teeth.
Everything was coming up blackberry: our fingers [in our
mouths] blood-ripe and dripping sweet metallics.
Beads of sweat crowned your forehead
in bloody flashes. Like, come on. You hear this right?
I mean, Jesus. Could you get any holier than thou?
Would you want me less if I said that, like a seer
wanting of time? You want me
wanting, no?
The sunset waterlogged itself red in
salted, convex rims and ran from leading
questions; a smile had split your face and teeth
[like thorns] [gold-rusted crowns]
burst through the plum mess.
You said something funny
with your mouth and your hands [I’m bleeding].
You could've said anything: a fruit-bat squeal,
blood oath bender in your bite.
You could’ve said anything at all.
I know what I heard [taste me].
And when the crest of Summer
launched its [sticky] hand into the [wet]
gasp of Autumn, you came to me tender-handed
rather than well-loved. Bruised [fruit against fruit].
Your body cast light like cicada shells
on the front porch. You peeled at your lip
like skin [leatherrind and erotic] — I imagined
an exoskeleton. like yours would glow in a minor key.
You’d sung, then. Choirless but nonetheless resonant.
You’d said [listen] something [I’m listening] about Flesh,
with knuckles caged around [bleeding] cherry pits,
It’s only superficial if you have no imagination.
Something like that [forgive me].
The pits were cupped to your breastbone.
Red [wept] between twin [smile wide]
scars and your shirt was discarded
like Spanish moss, [hung] from the porch railing.
The listing evening light insinuated bloodlust,
insisted [or maybe that was me] you tore out
your heart as a token of veneration.
A bleedin’ heart, I[a heretic]’d called you then,
drawl put on and dragging like a warm body.
Your canines flashed like [split] cherries,
white highlights scoring jeweled flesh.
Bleedin’, you echoed[oed] [d], in that ageless,
wanting way — kinda desperate [hyena-like and filthy]
like you wanted under my skin.
You’re polite. It’s a gift. You waited for an invite.
And, ‘cause we’re all guilty of indulgence,
you waited ‘till sunset too [and all was forgiven].
Noelle (Nell) Kriegel is a femme lesbian hailing from South Carolina. They have been previously published in Beloved Zine, editions 1&2; and The Werks Zine, a queer based zine in Columbia, SC. She is currently pursuing a Masters degree at Clemson, SC in English.