Читать книгу Dialogues with Rising Tides - Kelli Russell Agodon - Страница 15

Like every forest, I carry a bonfire

beneath my shirt. And my mattress?

It’s a featherbed of flames.

I’d want to write you a letter about longing,

but it has so many wishbone moments

you’d break, I promise. You—

you’d end up crying or cowarding,

or being part of the crocodile-tear

audience asking for a refund. Like most

lovers, my heartstone is actually heartbutter,

a heart murmur made of wax and it melts,

it smolders, the way the moth

isn’t suspicious of a lighter

until it moves too close to the fire.

This is my danger—

I kiss the whalebone without wondering

what happened to the whale.

It’s inexperience watching

the mercury drip onto my tongue—

seeing only the beauty of silver,

not the poison of a perfect teardrop,

like him. Or her. And still.

Let’s not be the part of the drink

that melts into something weaker.

Like any darling, I trust too much.

Even a burning building has a purpose,

as the whiskey does, the nipple, the novel.

So let’s begin the story here. Near the plastic

ocean. Our shirts off. Our drinks filled.

A bowl of cherries. Believing there aren’t any.

Wildfires in sight.