Her bright, tight angle from cheekbone to chin draws me in,
and she is going to burn the house down;
her green eyes glitter with leaping dolphins, wet skin,
and her iridescent darkness glows so hot, I can’t tell if her hair is black or brown.
Her shoulders cage a spine so big it bursts the bubble of her gentle frame;
I want to stretch a thousand canvasses in the moonlight on those boards.
Her tongue is a pool of gasoline pouring on my body’s open flame,
and her voice is a set of doves plucking strange and secret chords.
Her hands turn kindling to fire and flames to sin.
We float, happy duckies, rather than sink and drown.
Wherever she’s out, I don’t want to be in.
And she is going to burn the house down.