May I master love, undo its luster
do in the thing that makes us lust? 
 
May I speed through the body’s sinew 
to marrow? Or is toiling a part of 
 
the gaining of trust? May I pare and narrow 
your body down, and open it to my 
 
cupidity’s arrow? May I find my 
response to body’s unanswered call, 
 
(if the want leaves you wanting, at all)?

More by Hannah Sanghee Park

Strip

Like a frame within a frame the fossil
carried a carcass, a carapace,

and its own casket in another casket,
its own natural sarcophagus.

I never told anyone this story:
in a summer like this I ate a nectarine

until its rough corduroy pit, continued
rolling and chewing it until it hinged

open, and an inert spider, sitting
in white wisp, was inside like a small jewel.

How does a thing feel real. The layers
comprising me are, reductively, soft

hard, soft, an easy sift to the truth
but the hard sell and swallow done anyway.

Nommo in September

There you exist in water.
Unending sketch and erase

of waves on the sea surface.
Today, you’ll be all the words

I wanted to say: look, they’re so
pretty in that second they

surface. You almost didn’t
see them. You didn’t see them.

Sinuous, so commitment’s
a strange shape to hold and take.

I loved the water of you, the snake of
you, everything amorphous and short-lived,

as I expected nothing to last of us.
But when the waves break I still call them by name.