I told her my tongue was an earthquake.
She replied, “my mouth is a temple.”
Not wanting to bring an earthquake
to a temple, I leaned away.
“Let’s try again,” she said, “pretend
my mouth is not a temple.” We were about to kiss
for the first time. The distance between our lips,
the thickness of two sheets of lined notebook paper.
I was once the needle in a compass,
each magnetized hair searching.
I was once hinges on a door. What was it you said
when you heard me open?
I was once the Aurora Borealis struggling
in the night. We started over.
Her finger pushed my chin. She studied
what she was about to do.
All the lights in the world flickered.
Carrier Pigeon, Guttenberg, NJ, Vol. 4, Issue 1, Winter 2014.