Narrowness

When I touch you, I expect to come away with a hand covered in soil.

You burn like a peat fire,

with star spangled want

in the fog of my August bedroom,

The body, and the edge.

You’re mean, 

you’re narrowness.

I am clutching at my chest like the idiot I am. 

You're sunlight bouncing off the sides of the hotel pool,

you’re the winding of a street.

I know where the fleshy, soft part of you is,

and I think I could do it, if I needed to,

I could hit you right where it hurts.

We are fabric, ripping, and

this summer feels like a trial.

Do you like it, like that, right there?

I know you do, you always have,

My clever baby, 

you know enough about me

to weaponize this quiet coolness in our bed

and shape it into a noose.

Light leaks out of you like ichor

where your skin is breaking apart

on your shoulders, and the thick belt of your hips.

There’s a hole in your heart,

three fingers wide.

Rumi says that

زخم جایی است که نور وارد تو می شود

the wound is where the light enters you

I can see it shining out of your mouth

when you are shouting at me.

You’re italic, you’re aloe vera green.

My teeth aren’t sharp enough for your tough heart,

I can’t render it as you deserve.

Instead, I take you with a slowness;

it is almost an apology, and you take it as such.

Your eyes are wide and open

wet at the seams,

shining with all the trust of a stupid doe.