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00:00 / 01:26

Sacred your stinger,
your goddamn prick.
You take no shit. I have always
respected how you crack
the vestibule of life
so chic. Solitary one,
what do you ponder
wandering the great deserts
you left the great seas for?
So much more sensitive
than your exoskeleton
lets on, defense and death
define you, conjurer of rivers,
patron saint of toxic sex
and quick retaliation. In dreams
I am your altar. You come
out my orifices in spurts,
my mouth and ass and ears crawling
with venom. You finish. You don’t kill me,
so I glisten. You crawl on me and under me
a bed of you. I grab a tail and rub it on my lips
like gloss. My ancestors did not know
sand without sea. They made love
in the Orinoco’s waters. When plagues
came you were present, more frightened
than frightening, reactive when disturbed,
tail putting on your viscous show.
Vindictive one, why were you placed
amongst stars that for years
they so loyally traced?

E.R. Pulgar is a Venezuelan American poet, music journalist, and translator. Their criticism has appeared in i-D, Rolling Stone, Playboy, and elsewhere. Their poems have appeared in PANK Magazine and b l u s h and they have designed workshops for Catapult and The New York Public Library. Born in Caracas and raised in Miami, they live in New York City.