i found your feet
by the kitchen table.
closer, you say,
while i attach them back onto
your salt bones, tabasco blood dripping
onto my fingers. i am lost in a
waterlogged river of
browning thoughts and pasty dreams.
i hold my breath, a dirty thought
inside my mouth. closer,
you grab my hand and trace my fingers
along your insides, and i look away
at the ceramic
enforcing order on the kitchen tile,
pretending i cannot feel you
between my fingers.
i could squish you, i think.
i could grab your skin and bend it
against my nails: i could use
your tongue as a washcloth, i could
skip beats with your heart,
i could play hopscotch with your
i could twirl your hair around
a maypole, and i could
steal your eyes for my dreams.
i could have you.
and i could tell telephone wires and
biblical travesties and maternal clouds,
loose-leaf paper and rawboned ears;
things about you that
you will never understand, that would
make god crane his eyebrows
there are things i could tell you,
i raise my eyes to meet steel.
there are things we could know,
you walk outside in your
new yellow feet. the rocks cannot
penetrate your skin. i watch as the sky
turns to green above my head,
and the door clicks
i wring out the white sheets
and tell the birds your secrets
through the window.