Tecaran / Parker Feierbach

two people are on a futon
in a three-roomed apartment.
the king of rock'n'roll is playing
in the background, quiet.
a candle is burning but the lights
still on.
in the kitchen,
two empty thai food boxes
are sitting
on the counter. his was
spicy because he likes that strange pain
the refrigerator purrs.
in the upper corner of her apartment
he draws
a small black heart
with permanent marker.

her hands are soft like dockleaves
and dust,
and she has tattoos
to remember herself
the way that children do
on trees.
her shelves shelter her
favorite characters,
stacked stones,
and animals.
her thumb taps his leg
to the beat of the King's staccato guitars
she has a book in her lap
the second
volume of a diary
she has penciled through.
her eyes laugh
at the computer screen
with him,
at what they both know
what they both understand
at foreign lands
at tradition,
at small gods.
he kisses her head,
tousling her short hair
with his lips.
she giggles in her throat.

when we love,
we kiss ourselves often.
we find our passion in
muscle and skin
in the pages of spines,
in the squinting of eyes,
in quick-drawn breaths.
it sucks into our lungs like boron
and we choke on it.
we writhe in our stomachs
to the uncomfortable comforts
of recognition,
and feed dreams to our
with embraces
and the shaved,
creaking support beams of our skeletons.
Love is a circular action
because it bends back on itself
and kisses its tassetted toes.
it wears furs,
and refuses to be questioned.
it is an apple
with a forest at its core, and
we bite it
and toss the uneaten middle
until we once notice
the left flesh and decide to take all of it in
and leave only seeds in our palms
waiting to be tossed into earth
and die or grow up,
up beyond the canopies
of our hair
outstretched arms.
until we let the roots
creep under
and into our chests
until we are breathing
green branches
and bird's nests
and we cough out
feathers in great tufts.

But I am weak-kneed
and brittle
and my inner rings
house sleeping winters.

just ask me once
and i'll let you fill your fireplace
with my arms
or make books with my fingers
or build a home with my legs
I'll let you cut me down
and burn my dry skin.
with clouds out my eyes
and birds out my throat
i'll sing.

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