Magma
We kiss until my lips are swollen, vascular and pink in the rearview mirror, the Twenty Mile Bend a dark, open palm outside my windshield. We hunker inside my Camry like we’re huddled in an igloo, encapsulated in our own ecosystem—humidity at our hairlines, your tongue in circles on my neck like thumbprints in the dirt, your fingertips on my spine, illuminating each vertebrae individually, the only light to be found on this road, where the canals run like arteries on either side, the skeletons of power plants bare, the shuttered darkness like a layer of topsoil on my car. We are nothing but organic, a layer of the earth—crust, core, mantle—the stars, then my breasts pressed to your chest, my thighs around your hips, magma against silicate, as one element conforms to the other, our motion back and forth like plates on the surface of the Earth, that chisel and sway against one another.
Amanda Leal is a 27 year old poet from Lake Worth, FL. Her work has been featured or is upcoming in Beyond Words Lit Magazine, Homology Lit, Sky Island Journal, Cathexis Northwest Press, Haunted Waters Press, and others.