A part of me says this:
The inner surface of my bottom lip
remembers your brow
and the heat of green flames underneath—
I kissed your forehead, and now
I bend backwards with the breaching
of this sun
to ask you
if you moon of your ribs can still cradle me.
(Cut your side open and you can keep me
nestled against muscle,
rooted in your veins:
Let me sit in your western
mountain cavity.)
The shadow we cast has carried me
to the swollen edge
of these bruised knees—I am
almost begging you.
