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Deborah Wong

I'm making beetroot essence at the kitchen,
you love it thick and juicy like dripping carnal,
I poke a red dot on that breast-like dumpling,
blowing thirty-six candles on your birthday
is a child's play. You wish to fuck in sixty-nine styles,
witnessed by angels born out of wedlock.

You fondle my Venusian dimples with curiosity,
my hair slaps against my body, lips latching – hard;
straddling thighs, spines arching. Gripping
your heritage and my Han descent nucleotides,
as pearly sweats trickling down my cleavage,
desirous shadows embracing opaque scents,
musky bed sheets ripple with no shame,
calling me a breathing centipede, for I curl
like a Scorpio, dampen by your zesty bull-horn.

I paint love on nipples and areolas, on tongues
and palates; yours, mine, and then hers -
calming your swollen candle, rich nectar
in bowls, replenishing animalistic thirst,
vulnerable noises absorb the visceral timeline,
worshipping skins, never domesticated

Deborah Wong is a law graduate from the University of London, and attended the summer intensive creative writing workshop at the University of British Columbia. Her poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Liquid Imagination, Frozen Wavelets, Blood Bath Literary Zine, Eye To The Telescope, The 2020 Rhysling Anthology and other platforms. Find her chirping and surveying on Twitter, @PetiteDeborah