Crack my skin, eat enough of my fruit
to make me burst like birdsong.
Oh, good…now I watch our crippled thoughts
dance without shame on a table for only one drink.

My fruit was sweet and his juicy,
something blended then smoldered.
Old cooking ascending into the ceiling.
Lovers, they called us, all fifty in a hot room.

Roses died between our teeth.
Our breaths remained on foggy windows.
The night I met you, I met my archangel.
A match inside me was lit and I burned.