a sonnet, jan 2022
The scent of your skin is wilful suspension
of the disbelief in a peace of our shade.
Not like the wafting of expensive linen
or a tongue tingling with sour lemonade—
Such peace, ivory like the back of my teeth
and an eyeball rolling up toward the gates
of Heaven, was never ours to sow or reap;
leaks from my lungs whenever I see you glue
your lips shut to keep the lions asleep.
We are given white across our ribs, to soothe
a heart shivering the way do broken birds.
I cannot reach inside to brace it, but you
lift a teabag from the box as if it were
an offering, ask “Would you like another?”