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Tory Adkisson
I know his body by the sound of his hands
working their way through brambles.

By the orchard where his spirit was spit on
& sharpened. His teeth cusped down

on my shoulder until it broke autumn-red
beneath the moon's slow flood

back when I thought bleeding was romantic.
We spent hours out there, rutting

in the mud, his hand pressed against my chest
like a talisman, stirring something

inside me, something to make me forget
how I'd never seen fireflies before—or felt love.

How everything I did was pretend.
Cautiously, I told him how little I knew

of what we were doing. How deep I felt
his hand scrape for apples I didn't carry.

The fireflies beaconing along the ground
lit up the slack nooses of his eyes.

I searched desperately for a hand
I could hold on to or follow. Surely

he could see my eyes, tied in sheepshanks,
couldn't bear his weight without failing.
from the book THE FLESH BETWEEN US / Southern Illinois University Press
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