The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Today on Nerve's TV blog: Dance, Hipster, Dance! Plus: our latest NewsCrush — and why one army brat is breaking up with Army Wives.
Sometimes I lick her skin and it tastes like hot sand.
She moans, pooling deep into the mattress,
into water — sweat, come, solidified hair of her still-growing
nails —
like a breeze coming onshore,
like the leaves springing to life over the lawn.
The shadow of a kingfisher hovers over a still pond.
It grows larger and cooler.
It moves like a hand covering my wife's eyes, bones of pure feeling,
the blind tongue entering the warm cunt.
The roots cracking the house foundation begin to bleed.
The wind scatters vowels like an animal's dream.
