Photo by Mary K. Baird
Shoulder to window to back
in psychic union, I’m eyeing the roiled
bed and aftershock bookshelves,
you’re mapping the topographies of
balconies and lives behind shutters.
I imagine the glass as your rigid
spine, a grand piano of bones
and the melodies it’ll yield.
Nightly smoke break. You’re
cross-legged and shamanistic on
the metal slats of a peeling ladder,
exhaling telegrams on the wind.
Sticky breath and broiled lips
too remote to taste, I hate
your momentary obliviousness
to blackened lungs and me.
Pivot away, I’ll paint your face
with twelve expressions, a mouth
imperceptibly coiling in private joy,
eyes harboring silvery flares, skin
star-frosted like a mirrored pool, before
you can climb through the dusky
rictus, with a downward glare
and a secondhand kiss.