Megana Adigal

Night Portrait

Luminous are the glass waves,
an obsidian ink spill staining
the shore. Its warmth pressing
dripping cloth to my breasts. Plunge
in deeper, hold my chin
above the seafoam— it’s the
fable of the frog churning milk
into butter, the salty indigo
lapping my lips, indulging
in a late-night libation. The Aegean slicks
around my neck and arms,
undressing me from the zenith
where sky and sea lie
shoulder to shoulder.
Butter or blood? Pinpricks in
the raven velvet, perspiring
against swirling cream.
The frog hopping out of the milk pot
and into an unwritten page. I’ve
churned under the damp gaze of the moon.