The grass under our feet (as much as
your dimples) was responsible for offering
sacrifice, so we could slide smile, court
coy glances, and balance tenacity over
roots, rocks, sloping curves. We circled
each other, noticing, observing, that way
we do. Negotiation peeled off slowly
from my heartbeat heist as a ripe
cream moon cracked open dark. You
whispered, whimpered; my pen tore
through slick paper as soon as it could,
desperate for the inky release. How
could I know your upturned mouth
and skin would split open in me
such grace, such monstrous want,
such a taste for marrow? I keep
my own hungers in check, for fear
I will devour too much, open too wide
overstep, explode—myself or others.
What could happen, you asked. What
would you do? If only I had the beautiful
permission, perhaps I would find out.
Perhaps I will, when your heart is placed
under mine, under a bursting sky, again.