IN PRAISE OF THE NIGHTS HER THIGHS FLAME
I woke up wanting. To become leaves
held in hands. Not just to lie
in the soil but to become it:
a place of life, growth, held in the hand
of the one who takes me
behind her father’s barn at night,
her warm neck the taste of sweat. Dirt
under her fingernails and mine.
The train along the tracks
an urgent metronome.
Much like the rhythm of her voice:
you’re the winter wheat I don’t want
to tame. My mouth a so-called river.
My greedy hands. So many nights
behind the barn, nights racing
down the rows of crops, hands clasped,
trying to outrun daylight.