Now it’s summer in our separate rooms,
where in mine night renders the spackled drywall
a constellation-like map of your freckles;
so does your light
make you think of my bellybutton?
Doubts. I have them.
You said, The sea always drinks the sun,
but in the orchard, with myths of Newton and Eve
threading new fruit onto old branches,
your cider sparkled like Goldschläger;
your foot in the crotch of a tree–
where trunk becomes branch,
your mouth shaping the fruit of sin
into crescent moons.
After apple after apple
fell half-eaten from your hand.
you had the sticky one in my hair,
the other in grass
grabbing at it like a bed sheet beneath you;
then two handfuls of soil later,
and an exhale to answer the wind
you slept as if under glass,
the cords in your neck writhing
like a curtain full of wind.
Without your freckles in my peripherals,
I read stars like braille for questions,
but I only want to know
who it is
putting the dirt beneath your fingernails nowadays.