Given she’s walking two dogs, how does she find the laugh lines in his brick house? Did God reveal himself to her, sweating in numbers and light? She’s aroused by the steam domes of locomotives, experiments with her fine nubile china. She stretches her sex around the outskirts of human skin, over the tall, dark and handsome glass of skyscrapers. Bits of the Berlin Wall sneak under the canopy of her affection, remove their graffiti in unison like retired sisters shedding their habits. She returns the young man’s dogs, pets the fur, shakes the hand, and french-kisses the door.
Nyoka is a moth enthusiast living in Columbia, South Carolina where she stores her Prince paraphernalia. She has work in Hermeneutic Chaos, After the Pause, Visual Verse, and Apocrypha and Abstractions with more forthcoming in Bide. She’s currently working on her first chapbook.