By H. R. H. Kane
I did not fall in love—
I walked slowly into it as if wading into a lake
(placid, for the most part,
with sudden sweeping waves that lapped at my chilled skin;
it reflected a bright blue sky
with impossible stars winking through),
while sucking in my gut and squealing expletives.
Profanity like that has a place in your mouth,
a tiny corner cache almost touching your throat.
I’m proud of the days I pull them from you,
and content to return them to their proper place
through your mouth, your ears, et al.
I’ve traced your body like a globe,
connecting countries and continents in the form of
spots, dots, freckles, bruises, creases, cuts, scars,
to the point of et cetera—
they may be imperfections,
but all I see are capital cities and fjords.
New ones arrive, revisions are made,
and although I’ve become an expert in such matters as you,
I’ve yet to grow accustomed to the waters.
And I hope what you remember the most is
the rhythmic prose I curl round the shell of your ear
when I’m too tired to be me.
But I’d rather believe this will end just as it began:
never.
Clamor 