toadlily press

There are days winter folds in
upon itself, when mountains grow
a lake and the shoreline bends
a beckoning finger, when the air
is so cold it creases the trees
into icicles. Birds then know it’s time
to tuck a wing into a wing, wrap
a feathered cheek against
a similar softness. A nest is made
for two at least, twigs and leaves
and flannel, a weave of aviary
origami. Our bed is threaded
by downy quilt and comfort of near
and nearer still. There’s only one
song we hear to keep away the chill.

I’ve always wanted this kind
of winter: snowflakes stripped
of their spurs, folded into hearts,
curves melting onto tongues,
tucking into kisses one by one.

It was her obsession with chemistry that got us here.
No, not equations,
the chemistry that occurs
from heat to heat
scent to scent

and now in reaction. . .

it was her obsession with the mind,
with motivations,
that got us here.

With merit and Mondays.

It was her obsession with the Atlantic and birds and thunder.

The way lightning sometimes split her vision.

In retrospect, it was her obsession with chemistry.

It wasn’t a lure, dangled
by some fallen angel.
She found it, mid-path
no tree nearby. Unbruised
red-yellow round

sprung from the gravel.
She entered the sweet
fruit, wet flesh
breaking on her tongue. She didn’t
ask for it. Wasn’t
looking for it. No one

tempted her. Unless
the apple itself, longing
to be known, can be blamed
for the light bent
across its skin
for the mid-day heat
transforming sugar to scent.

And him? She didn’t say
a word to him. He found her
slack-jawed, skin
flushed and damp
as if he had lain on her
pressed into her—

he found her, swallow by swallow
savoring the taste of knowledge
her eyes fixed, focused
somewhere beyond him
as if he no longer existed.
And one more thing—
she didn’t tempt him. In fact
she never offered it.

He pried the fruit
from her hand, desperate
to follow, and bit.