Rainy, I say, when what I mean is
the curve of your nail, the striations on your knee
the chafing woolen weave of your cheek.
I could live inside your room forever.
What is it like outside? you ask.
Brrrr, I answer, when what I mean is
wrap me in benedictions, lay your hand upon my ungloved head.
I lash myself to this ceramic windowsill
My cheek paints feverish patterns in the glass.
What is it like outside? you ask.
Warm, I tell you, when what I mean is
the snarl of hornets, my pulpy apricot flesh
gouged by your teeth, I wipe my finger
beneath your chin.
What is it like outside? you ask.
Bitter, I confide, when what I mean is
scorch me, slash and burn, harvest me whole.
Moths with wings like butternut squash scratch against the window,
a staccato pulse, acorns fall from my pockets
and red shreds of leaves from my hair.
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