sticky is a plunge into a pool of olive oil. sticky is the bastard child of Venus and St. Claire. sticky is the static humming of a marble statue. sticky is the sunlight trapped inside its pages. sticky is poetry by Jacob Forquer.

The Elasticity of Skin

Lazy paint on the wall above our heads,

drips dried and thick, feel like skin

stretched taut over a joint.

When I move my fingers over the back of her neck her hair is thin enough to roll into

the grooves of my fingerprints

and she hums like I am not listening.

Our palms run together, this time not cutting, and it sounds like

the pages of an old book rubbing.

Her skin is long and soft

and short and hot and cold.

It flows when it moves, when she moves.

Epigraph on a successful headstone

He went on to be a stern father, making very little impact on the world.

[The sun caught…]

The sun caught

in the vineyard lines

looks like trembling spider webs.

The roadkill on the shoulder have fallen to the shape

of the tragedies of greek gods carved out of flawless marble, matted hair not out of place.

In Keeping Sure Hair Stays Short

I have a handful of fingers.

Those are fists

and you have two of them. They fall as pipes do

and break up sunlight. You do not call

with avian intent

or roll over fence tops

like a robin.

Your skin is tight

and good for snapping. Do you know

why your eyes are blue?

It is because you

cried too much

when you were young. You have no cock;

that is a penis.

You won’t make love

but fuck like rummaging. You will not get handsome or look kissed by Adonis.

There is braille

coming through on my skin.

Those are goose pimples; do not blush

with that girl and that boy during the night.

You are not hard

so work inside fields, growing hands as you must. Jump face down

and embrace it

I bleed.

but do not let them hear you. Do not show the sound

of your voice,

you cannot.

Do not fall down.