I’m watching your hand settle
at my hipbone. Quietly it frisks
a colonial smirk once found at golf clubs
and the earth under your nails
smells a pulled out beetroot.
In the mountains, I’m tendered. Leaf after
leaf I stir in the sugar, ginger, milk from breasts
swinging like children in trees
caught with silhouettes groaning
under the slap of sun, fill
a thick-white cloud hatched behind me.
Strain the unwanted, you say
while the night howls in your flimsy den
and moths settle in stars
stepped free from all the mist.