Our skin seeped into New York’s sod, roots drinking our veins. We tied ourselves over, and he licked my palms. His breath of onsen youth. I cupped myself underneath his collarbone and wrapped the Earth around us for our bed. The flowers bloomed in our bedaubed hair, and when we used up all of our pence, we moved to the Bronx to unbend our heads. I bought a candle that whispered feeling into our lungs, ate his tears for supper, and asked him to stay. I howled away our bad dreams into the moon, his saltiness unraveling in my belly.






Natasha Cooke is a wander luster, eternal optimist, sculptor of words, lover of wine, tattoo aficionado, a fantastical candy eater, and an all-around film whoremonger.

Photo Credit: McKay Savage

2 Responses to “Bronx”

  1. Nicole says:

    I keep reading it over and over…

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