vespera

In our humid perfume, or by it, the sun steamed the husked prairie hillsides. My palm in your palm was a plain wren, simple as earth made dust by a wind—up and up—into unfiltered sky and your eyes were big as ripe nectarines. I noticed none of these things, could not smell the pine for you were a heady pheromone. Our tent was an idle curiosity, how we would bookmark into it. There were other sounds than the gauzy rustle of small blue flowers butting the nylon. Is it enough to re-remember history? How I pinned one cornflower, its proud head full of superstition, right then to your collar. How blue it stayed. How blue and brimming

I wait in a womb of Chinese silk, thoughtfully tucked away from other ornaments, in a dark where I wait for her more than she waits for me. Once, I grew on the soft pallet of a sea of tongues. Once, I knew the covenant of salt, was built to protect, to grow hard against assailant. Was it your greed which stole me from safe mouths? Or hunger? Now, I'm your adornment. Your adored. When I dull, you take me from your soft skin and acid, and worry your oils from me. I have my own rag. My own care. When I lie in the dark, I cannot even click my spine of nacre. I make no noise, cannot rustle my truths: