sextina

by Iliria Osum

Image credit: Christina Victoria Craft on Unsplash

a hand in the bird is worth two in the bush, and a bird on her back

seems as easy to trap with cupped palms as with a net;

wait long enough in stillness and a bird will jump into a predator’s

loose fingers. then the fingers crook and tighten, a ready fuck

you, until the bird finally lays to rest its wings and claws—visited

by that ancient and evolutionary need, self-preservation. the hot-

blooded pulse the bird and the hand share, zings from blue vein to blue vein, a

hot reminder that should you look through your life’s cladograms back

to the origin of all things, should you pause your Big Bang and visit it

again and again despite your promises to yourself, the net 

sum of your discovery remains: whatever our species, we all fuck.

and at three hundred pounds you could call me a Big Bang, though predators

usually know better than to bring it up. seduction is a game of predators

and their jerry-rigged nuptial plumage, caked up in blues and blacks and hot

reds to induce in the rest of us a gut-deep roil, a need to shout, “fuck

me! pluck me clean!” and mean it. they know that we’re likely to back 

out if the Banger mentions the Bangee’s cellulite. birds, same as flies, are easier to net with honey.               

                   she called me prettier than my photos when she visited

my first apartment. we orbited each other for a decade before the visit; it

seems inevitable, now. girl meets blog. girl uses blog. girl chases off predators

with endless self-discovery, and not the sexy kind—a safety net

of tedious teenaged Sturm und Drang. but I guess some people think that’s hot. technically I was an adult when she finally came in my bed, when she used the back

of her hand between my legs. it wasn’t less tedious than high school, the fuck,

though no one at XHS tied up my hands and choked the ever-living fuck

out of me. she told me I liked it, and so I visited

the self-same darkened space into which I’d stuffed XXXXXXXXX, jumped back

and forth between the tender ministrations of a predator’s

cupped palm and my own willing inattention. hot

under the collar of her hand, under the pink net

of her interlaced fingers. she cast her net

and in I slipped, bird-bellied, an easy fuck

who spread on slapped command her hot

center. Bang, Bang. in silences I still visit it.

the soft stroke of her predator’s 

palm. me on my back.

we still called it the ’net, the first time we talked online. I was twelve and very careful; back

then I’d never said the word fuck or clicked into a chatroom, on account of predators.

she panted like a dog, damp, hot. but of course I’d invited her. she said, it’s your fault I visited. 

***

Iliria Osum

Iliria Osum is an interdisciplinary artist who lives and works on unceded Kumeyaay land in Southern California, and who recently received an MFA in Writing from UC San Diego. Poetry and prose have most recently been published in Welter and Glint, while dramatic and interactive work has been produced in San Diego (La Jolla Playhouse Without Walls Festival, 2024), on Payaya land in San Antonio (Communion Gallery, 2024), on Lenape land in New York City (the Tank, the Center at West Park, the Brick), as well as in London (Ugly Duck).