by Amanda McQuade
Tastes like wet wheat on a deserted road,
Like your name in my mouth – bitter
Darjeeling steep in day-old water
Under a dusty radiator.
I bring you to me, mouth split at the sight
Of your blue eyes, and I recall how your ocean
Would smell in my belly: cabbage boiled
In November.
Heat billowing out vacant chimneys
Stumbling, grasping for oxygen.
Ears staple ears; fleshy parts pink
Expands out over a quilted scape.
