I walk through a road paved with fire; my aflame body fogs the air
The road transfigures into your portrait, your words
daggering my skin with faux affection.
What do I do when you call me yours, when your voice
pulls me to my knees until gravel scrapes
hair off flesh, & flesh off bone?
This road smoulders our love and cracks the space between us. It glows
like your eyes, furnace hesitant to melt away the shadows of men
like my father whose presence the hallways feel only at night—when
rats scurry in circular dances & footsteps are drum rolls. Like you, my father is only seen
on days his muscles are wilted with disease, & he lays
on drenched beds, his forehead gleaming with my mother’s care.
On those days only, he loves her, just like you love me when I’m not there.
Where does this road lead? A place where you become the image
I make of you, a kaleidoscope of colours non-existent?
Why don’t you pull me to your chest like you do in my dreams,
where your lips are cellos humming benedictions into my ears,
as your palms, feverish with desire,
adorn my curves with prints.