Revolution NOW [16]: And The Word Became Flesh

And The Word Became Flesh

the white space waits for my reply

I don’t type, instead the words appear
in bold on my fingertips,
in my pulse

the white space waits for my reply

I put my fingers on my lips, so I can’t type
the letters appear in italics
in my mouth


the white space waits for my reply

instead syllables slip, slow,
over (oʊvər) my (maɪ) breasts (brɛsts)

the white space waits for my reply

I close my eyes, your words in sans serif
written along my thighs
hot little darts

I put my fingers where your words are

my reply a bitten lip,
a breath, a moan.

Please note submissions for our Poem of the Week segment is currently closed — a new call for submissions will be issued shortly. We are currently accepting submissions to our regular features: MONOGRAPH (a group of poems by a single author) and New Voices (poets aged 18-30 who have yet to publish a full collection).

Please read the full requirements on our Submissions page, before sending your work.

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