Aug 9, 2020
Luster
Come gondola tongue, come narrow passage, come lunar water vapor, nightfall summoning the tide of him up and up
this begging shore, shining cliffs, his hard hands a storm cloud in our shared sky, synchronous orbit luring me to the thunder
of that body, silver satellite, the long milk he laps from the canal of my spine, I'm all eyelash and inhale, all estuary, all course and crushed
by the meteor of him, by the crater pretending to be sea in the telescope's lone and limpid eye, our only cries were answers, crawling
together through a light so clear it felt like wind, like undertow you could—will—drown in. Jess Smith
