this: the summersmell
of sun’s warmth smoothed
on entwined skins & their mattress promises;

his weight against the crescent of your womb
& peach moonshine on late indian half-full
nights, amber-fingered and dripping

like candleflame through open windows;
the sweat that beads on scars; the slight lightening
of irides from hardwood to hazel

in riverlight on a Sunday afternoon
under a sky like September
with clouds like a ribcage

spread in a deeper inhale.
it is enough to make you feel like drowning,
like you are being brought back

to life. some days they can pull you
from the pull of the water.
some days you simply sink.