Gunmetal

You grip the stone
of a peach

between
clenched lips.

A light tap
on wood

tops––the redness
on your knuckles.

I trace you.
Your tattoos

on my finger-
tips. All this blue

ink under
my nails from you.

A few soft
thrusts

and what floats
from you:

Truth like a river
never to pass

under a bridge
to look

for light. All else
explodes

from our mouths––
a gasp of color––

and the fuck
of your curve

on sheets.
Little else gushed

as I watched
you eat.

---

Tyler Michael Jacobs currently serves as Editor-in-Chief of “The Carillon.” His poetry has appeared, or is slated to appear, in “The Carillon,” “Poached Hare,” “The Magazine,” “The Hole in the Head Review,” “Runestone,” “Rumble Fish Quarterly,” and “East by Northeast Literary Magazine.”