Manatee
	
	cow of the sea, without milk or
	promises of dairy
	foot rest to the ocean

	you swim faster than I kiss
	three to five miles per hour
	twenty, if you practice first

	how long do you live
	how much time do we have?

	I love you— 
	twenty-eight words long
	no pauses     no clarifiers
	just   diving   into

	what slaughters have become
	from wooden vessels rubbing
	too close against you
	or spiral blades engraving scars

	we can rub our wounds together

	my bones are warm and shallow
	I am deep enough to feed you
	feast upon my green veins 
	hold onto my wavering branches

	be careful of the hooks 
	trying to digest you
	be careful of the fisherman
	trying to twist you

	your meat is not as firm as it once was
	and yet 
	I long to hunt your texture

	while you sleep I watch you
	half of a day 
	breaking for breaths
	curve  your  weight  into  blue  palm  of   me

Aimee Herman is from Brooklyn, NY or her mother's vagina–depending upon who you ask. She currently has two chapbooks of poetry out (tastes like cheesecake and if these thighs could talk) and a spoken word cd. She has been featured on The Joey Reynold's Radio show in NYC, venues in NY, NJ, CT, MA, and CO.