When writing is more real than life
in the dripping summer heat,
that doesn't burn the way it
did when the constellation of freckles
between my shoulders
wasn't skin damage,
there were no words;
just kissing boys on thigh-searing
car hoods under a canopy of oak trees,
holding sweaty hands at movies,
falling asleep drunk and raw
insisting that we practice more
to really perfect the french kiss-
words were excuses.
when there are no words.
Now I write about a stable love,
a flock of cannibal chickens,
a pride of barely domesticated
house cats, a sink of dirty dishes,
fingers ringed like Saturn, a mesh of legs
crossed beneath a thinning quilt,
lazy Sundays, fights in the kitchen,
breakfast in bed, rushed morning kisses goodbye.