In French, a little death, is an orgasm.
A phenomenon that encroaches on you, colonizes you,
Saturates you, levitates you,
Until a time bomb explodes through the little cracks
That impact on another. It pops like corn kernels
In a microwave or volcanoes bursting out lava.
It summons like the outer perimeter of a black hole
And eats you like a famished cannibal.
And that instant you scream your lungs, larynx and lips out,
Your echo will start to acquiesce,
Slipping out, like a rabbit, out of her burrow,
To become the skull bones
Of your full moon.