by Ica Sadagat


i’m not saying she’s god

but she carries
all the qualifiers
with wings
across her face
because the way
she is with me
is not only exceptional
it is prerequisite
it is the belly
and supple terrain
her spit is
her nape
is my yes
in bloom
on my knees i say
and please my lord
forgive me
for i am going to pray
with just one finger
if seeking is peaking
and my attempts
so moot so let them
so elemental
become her ears
beside my trill
her body my body
are different
and same:
lines like rivers,
flesh as boulders
i traverse her thighs
with injuries

Is this love or is this edging?

The way we glow in the afterlife of the beforelife before life took us to western desserts to oceanside with onyx sands reminiscent of their mother their mother my mother is me and I have held myself for a very long time tenderized until beaten and beaten until so tender but I was always so soft so what of me now of us of this flesh and sentient capsule slick and worn and taut enough for the weight of us and the weight and the wait I could have sworn this skin was mine with thick candy brine ok fine no bones this time just sinking and sunken and slip me in reel me all the way madame your afterglow is my favorite restrain

After the tongue

fingertips     are the most
 sensitive part    of
   the    body
Science  is cute
  but   what about 
  our   junctions ?
The vee   between
your index   and middle
 between  skull and neck
  the  ankle
  your brow
    the fleshy    embodiments
of  transition?    Everything is
 a moon —   expanding
and    imploding and   ending,
    coming to     completion
 in   heavenly ruin
  and earthly  promise

i need more tenderness

not just the tenderness of your lips at 4 am

but the tenderness of the sea
when it envelops the earth

the needle on a record kind of tenderness
when i woke i did the dishes

i folded your clothes
you said you were sorry

(i still cried)

when the sun sets on lake tahoe
rocks sleep underneath an aqua blue

and acquiesce to its burial
like a tear crawling to a chin

wanting to be licked
because i’m not your antagonist

i need more tenderness

the spoon in a bowl
my hand on your hand

a body without bones kind of tenderness
like the afternoon light

before the telephone rings


When I say this message
is forthcoming
I am lying
and telling a truth

In this moment
as I write to you
my words are on their way
— they are arriving

Now, as you read them
they are also here
But is there anything

so undeniably ready
for your taking?

Maybe not
maybe so
I’m just as forthcoming
as you

Writer’s BIO:

Ica Sadagat is a poet, educator, and community worker. Their poetry considers water, root trauma, queer erotics, bodily restitution, and (the limitations and expanse of) language, among others. Ica writes to generate new flesh out of her own world-making.