by Lauren Bledsoe
Wind unhinged
and wrecked by light,
you are my own lion:
finely veined marble,
bones swung into a chest
of tree bark and plums,
the slightest tinge
of cinnamon, an amber mane
of fire-spun hair, I am
laced in your air, and
I am leashed between
your teeth, and I am
whistling your name
to each plant I pass,
your name: an insect name,
a storm name, a name
scrawled on fenceposts
and birdcages, a name
whispered in sleep
and screamed in dreams,
I am naming your fingers
at dusk and your footsteps
at dawn, names for the
sound of you: the silence
just-before the hiss of rice
poured into pan, I name
your taste and you name
mine: lemon meringue,
pomegranate, peppers split
across the tongue,
wet grass, tobacco, charcoal, sun.