| Turtle Moon
I. you did it, kissed at the airport, full-lipped in front of badged, creased-polyester-slacks- batoned-in-lust-looking-at-us-limp- jawed-thumbs-behind-thick-security- belt-men. In front of the 20 piece waterpolo team of hot breath and smoking saliva playing the porno slide slow, clicking women in reverse off the whites of their eyes. You did it in front of the 80 year old woman in stern shoes, whose permed set bubble unscrolled down from God, lacquered straight from the sight of us. You did it anyway, kissed me with swollen lips broken open like the first bite of an August peach, drizzling down my chin, and I held on to you like the sides of swings resigned to soften steeples, surge over spires. I held on like it was life or death I was meant to die, to believe our bodies are art a best, estimations, paintings on shells. II. Turtle Moon, I walk Praha in a fevered trance, cross bridges burning footprints into 14th century stone, it’s only inside of night I’m able to see my heart out of it’s rind, starburst and splayed alligator eyed, and for the first time in my life I understand the yield of an offering, the way you walked me into the airport, took my bit of bread, bite of fish, and how we fed the world with one kiss. Daily, The world is a kin Of fossilized cave drawing. Nothing exists but you, and Mountains that puncture clouds, Their halos, and the racing wings That watch over us. Keelyn T. Healy |