For J. B.
There is a world in which you kiss me all over
bring me quesadillas but call them quesitas
As if they are baby wrens and my skin you kiss is bird fluff soft
downy like a mewling owl
When I sleepwalk I’m so angry I look for glass to break
only finding metal, impractical and cold
Clingy like a cage which is a prison
this skin, a bush stone-curlew screaming,
(a tiny jar of glitter and a Christmas cactus mate)
I look to you to feel my insides popping
starry nodes dissolving
a blue-black ache
There is a world in which you sit at a bar, legs tightly crossed,
willing yourself invisible,
vision blocked by my low hanging fruit.
I stand guard: your lupa, fangs bared
I believe in you: a rainy night
a literary sounding name
A silent shimmer like northern lights.
As I thrash around for calm your face remains expression-less
still, I flutter with how much of you I want in me.
I saw the fluffy down inside your cheek,
The crystal-rainbow, more wild and green, than yellow.
I am prone to jerk awake,
(so they don’t get hurt)
those hidden colors that you swallow.
