Which came first, your gleaming pulse or mine?
Lend me blueprints of your mind and I’ll stay,
thinking of scalpels, cupped in your scapula as I lie,
the shadows of my eyelashes stretched across
the imperfections of your back. Ephelis, cicatrice, nevus.
Vertebral column to column we face each other.
I slice the cranial map on your torso – you strum
wire across the surface, a throbbing artery, coiled veins -
and follow the lines off the page through clusters
of muscle and translucent skin, cobbled, but
what would you say through your vocal folds if
my larynx said I’d lost my cranium but found yours?
And far from your thoughts I prepare to jump,
flexibility of limb an evasive quality, waiting for you
to plunge my heart down through my stomach,
empty and deep: reach your whole forelimb down
and let it log with murky fluids until it sinks,
like the sinking of the organ and the rise over again
until it gags me sweet, in the taste buds.
I just know my tongue will writhe on the roof of my mouth.
I pull my head up over my heels; should that be heart over head?