Again & again, I try to stir you by pressing my lips to your ear.

You don’t like to be touched, but still, you let me play.

​

At your rising, I lead you through the dark cellar

to steal momma’s wine—a bottle each.

​

This feral laughter galloping in our chests, I wish
for it to be this way always. Let us run, over the hills,

​

where I promised to take you.
I drink & you drink & I touch your red mouth

​

& make a new country, trace the dense translation
of hardened skin of your palms & make a new country.

​

We belong to each other before we ever belong

to Him; how night is the soft flutter of wet lashes

​

when you open your lungs as to abandon sorrow. We laugh

so hard at our drunkenness we become wolves.

​

Night is the lull of your neck. Night is the tangle of your fingers in my hair.

What is the spirit, you ask me, & the moon climbs the night’s back.

​

I lay my head on your chest to listen:

                 it's this                                            hunger without a mouth

 

yes, come touch me          here            hold me a little longer

​

Nights like these, I could believe in anything: that you & I are possible in these hours that will at last come for us.