sklotzbach

When you kiss me, I see fireworks behind my squeezed-shut eyes. You tasted the language of your ancestors on my tongue and told me I felt like home. With your grandfather’s crucifix clutched in my fingers, I made bargains with God. We met on the last hot day of an Indian November. I loosened my morals, and then your belt, but you never seemed to mind. All I’ve gotten for the past two years is a face full of tears, and I don’t want to keep growing old without you. We were starving when we met. After I die, will they publish the love letters I never sent in a neat little book? I never took note of the phases of the moo