In the rain-scented cave of my body, night loosens 
the well-oiled hinge of its mouth. The man who dived deep 
beneath my skin & emptied out his sudden pearls
now lies shipwrecked & desireless beside me, the silence 
between our bodies a meadow I can’t bring myself
to cross. O wind-twisted magnolia, you who diligently 
paved my window with sweetness all summer, teach me 
how to be marked by faith without being 
swallowed by its light. I should confess that when he came 
inside me like the softest knife I’ve ever felt, all I could 
think of was my mother’s throat lit by the white fire
of the thistle moon years ago—as she tied around the cool flesh
a necklace strung with the pointed bullets 
she’d carefully picked from my father’s drawer, when 
the field outside bristled with the anticipation 
of autumn (though it was not yet the end of summer,
no, not yet) & it was still easy to believe that the blue flame 
of the cicadas’ song among the high leaves
would go on & on.