Monday, December 26, 2016

russian red

"He whispered, ‘Sweet honey, sweet honey, in the morning I will smell your skin where you are raw from the night.’"
Alfredo Encanasa, The New World 

I see you wipe the corners 
of my red mouth with your 
forefinger and thumb, or perhaps 
a pressed linen napkin, or a tissue 
from a box made of tall northern
trees that bend only slightly 
in the hot canyon wind; their hardness 
and love of sun keeping them tall. 
I hear you speak softly 
from the valley at the center of our bed
telling me that now it’s your turn 

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