3. he was writing on an orange peel
HE WAS WRITING ON AN ORANGE PEEL
and touching me. The words were citrus; fingertips sticky and bitter
I half-slept half-woke into the dense lavender air of winter dawn
as the foxes mated in the distance.
He named my birthmarks after Greek islands
and then we lay there, still
like dead birds melting into muddy snow.
A soft breeze kept my eyelids cold
and for a brief moment
I thought I was sleeping under
the night sky:
(white lace on a sun-burnt t-shirt,
heavy with sweat)
yet as I felt the foxes’ cries pulsing against the edge of my skin at night,
I was thrown back into the bliss of an instant
blistering and almost drunk,
on the feral scent of pheromones and extraordinary light.