He tried to churn my grief into sex,
my still form, so much as butter,
hardly mobile, his lips and tongue
whipped fast –
What am I now? A sleepless waste
gone sour. I cannot touch
I cannot trust
get past the sudden arrest
of wrongness, the moment stolen
when close to worn-out peace,
the rancid of a salted stick –
My mouth I cannot taste. I cannot
not shake, I cannot bed
that safe space curdling
a harder grief.
Rhiannon Thorne’s work has appeared/is forthcoming in Vox Poetica, Your Daily Poem, Third Wednesday, and The Foundling Review. She also co-edits the publication Cahoodaloodaling with poet-in-arms Kate Hammerich.