Padma

I.

Shh - the moth is kissing
the screen
with its whole body.

The candle touches the curves
of my bare shoulders
with its light.

I ease music from
the aching piano
the whole warm night
listening
to each breath.

II.

Your tongue
is the tongue of the irises -
licking, purple, shallow.

Your hands curve
to cup the places where
our stems grew once
out of the rich, salty earth

shaking with joy.

III.

Rumor has it you'll
burn me, you'll burn
bright as a pack of firecrackers

set off all at once
on the slick wetness of blacktop
after the rain has passed.

In the deafness of explosion
the space that lies between us
is too thick and red
to touch.

IV.

Rust came off in
my hands, the pushed gate
opening the valley.

The grass grew over
my sneakers, the truths
of childhood buried
in the low red heartbreak
of afternoon.