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.