I really miss your hands on me.
the way you held me in
sullen incubation.
I remember the oldest incantation:
the thrust I was given,
some gleaned anticipatory luck:
      God gave you a chance and
    an unfinished smile.

we needed a spark.

I grin full tooth to show you
my new porcelain canines.
light the match.
now the frame is melting
and so am I.
in the cradle of tar black trees,
I fight the urge to bow
and suddenly tiptoe
all around you;
two inches taller than you remember
and my tongue hot
hits your neck like a
wet quill.

hold your breath.

wait
for some other current to take me.
bite your skin.
let the tips of my
fingers dig in and
always remind them;

  there are no exits.

“chrysalis”