We pile soap like bricks on the bathroom sink.
I’d build something grand if they lasted longer.
When we kiss, I taste the lavender of your fields.
Our love is dirty like what’s under the nails of
a lion, blood flecked with prey. Watch this leap of faith
onto the back of gazelles. If you stop chasing
tails, I’d come for you anyway, my spine curving
the letters of your name. My fists are for pawing.
I know eleven words for love and all of them sound like
kill. You’ve spotted me in the tangled jungle
of the bathroom mirror. Shine eyes. The shower
is a curtain of forget. Metal hooks that string
things together. I’ve misplaced the baby again,
like house keys. Shake me, listen for the
muffled jangle of teeth through skin.
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written tucked between the fireplace and the stained-glass windows.
Time Taken 5 or 10 minutes.
Brain on the realization that being an introvert means I have no one to photograph for these poems except myself.