asylum
a sonnet, jan 2022

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The scent of your skin is wilful suspension

of the disbelief in a peace of our shade.

Not like the wafting of expensive linen

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or a tongue tingling with sour lemonade—

Such peace, ivory like the back of my teeth

and an eyeball rolling up toward the gates

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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.

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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

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lift a teabag from the box as if it were

an offering, ask “Would you like another?”