resuscitation

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.

it is a long way since 17, but

pipeline with rose petal

by midsummer i
am all riversand and
freckles, inkdreaming

in a language re-
born from murk
and rivermud.

and though
it is good growing
weather, all

sticky rain
and cloudless
noons, my vinedark

currents are slow to crawl,
slow as the sun eats
shadow.

snugged close
on a narrow doorstep,
swatting mosquitoes

seems suddenly
like some kind of love.
so we soak up each

heavy july evening
as if we knew
we weren’t meant

to last. as if fall
were already falling.
as if this were

another country
song dripping
to its end.