Junglescape, Meagan Dwyer

 

 

 

The arrhythmic pulse of jazz makes my back arch

as I strike a match against the curved edge

of your jaw; the thought of you is like stepping

outside after a movie when the light

                                              is too sharp.

I never thought I’d keep a collection of our sins,

organized by a God who loves hooks and cherry tobacco.

How easily you touch my hair

                                    beneath the low pull

of the sun, make the bed where all the small

shudders and eager deaths lie still and waiting.

I want to steal what your lungs do so well;

lock breaths in a box hidden

                                            under a city of rust.

Withheld tongues sigh the names found behind a door

I cannot open.