FIRES AND FLOODS

​How many times I’ve wondered
whether the mouth is a cave,
 
a place to find refuge from the rain,
the way I’ve always searched
 
for safety in someone else’s body,
finding warmth in hands
 
that make my body ignite.
And I like this kind of burn--
 
the feel of your mouth,
your bird-like fingers, never stilling,
 
perching on the branch
of my shoulder, knotting in the nest
 
of my hair. I remember the first time
your hand snaked into my pants.
 
My body became a lit match.
My eyes fell shut like a window
 
in heavy winds, mouth opening
into a silent scream,
 
which is to say the mouth
is more than a tongue and teeth.
 
It’s the low whimper falling
from a throat. But such a sound fades
 
fast. And if the mouth is a way in
to the body, then it’s a cave,
 
and what is a cave
but an incoming crisis?
 
We’ve all heard the stories:
the monster waiting within,
 
or the collapse—people stranded
inside. And, yes, I’ve confused
 
the sound of the ocean with the song
of someone’s breath. I know
 
that neither force is safe,
that there’s such a thing as drowning
 
in someone’s scent,
getting locked within the cave
 
of their mouth, too far gone
to escape without leaving
 
a piece of yourself behind.