Alligator
by Athena Nassar
To your lover, you say swallow me whole. To the world,
you say come dip your ladles in my fertile belly. The well
is always full. The water is always warm where the sun
beats down. I say you should cry where nobody will
hear you. On the bank where I am pulling you out of its
mouth, I am clutching you by your legs, each leg
kicking back as if a part of you wants to stay wedged
in the throat of what will kill you. On the surface where
it hovers, I find you, mouth impregnated with
pomegranate, juice streaming down your chin like
a punctured artery. The earth waits to open and drag
you under. Pray for him, then leave him buried
in the house with the holes in the walls. In the belly
of his own outrage. Close your mouth; the world will never
lift a glass to your dry, wrinkled lips. No one will ever
love you like you do. I pray you will emerge from its
throat, wet and awake and gasping for air. It is not your
lover. It is not your enemy. It is you, stranded in a body
of freshwater, feeding on your own hunger to please.
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