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Half me, half you,

half moon.

Even with hands closed,

I know it is you.

This night, cruel rain and lamé

But when I had you, you know

the cliché by heart,

nausea set in stars.

Searching for the perfect always ends

inside the muse—

who smears honey on lips,

then leaves.

Again, we forged our mother-tongues,

kissing one another’s islands.

We fold alike

as tight kaleidoscopes at the door.

You force your red flowers.

You force your yellow ones, too.

Buttercup under chin:

Yellow.  You like it.  I’m smooth.

Our backbone and lips

share errors the colors of blood and butter.

Veins are wounded so we look

for other means to send the message.

The moon, giant pushpin in the sky,

posts this note:  it’s time to forget

we’ve been getting what we asked for.