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you tear the skin of her phalanges, if only to feel

the cold tip of the bones of her long,

winding, fingers. you trace the cold,

if only to arrive at the warmth of her palm: a cushion

of red and wine. and you lie there;

a fetus bound by the cord to her placenta. a lover

bound by the heart to her hands.

She cradles you, and you learn to feign slumber

halfway through her lullaby. eyes close, mouth open.

gaping to suck on a thumb or a nipple; hard

Llke the rubber end of a mongol. the color of carnation

and rust. slowly, you drift farther

and farther away. smaller and smaller like a dot

of dust ‘derneath her nails.

when the warmth chills you,

you pull up her skin like a blanket. skin to skin

like steamy nights in Santa Fe, when all you had

was her skin to warm your cold, cold heart. and you dream,

you dream of tearing her skin so you can keep it

tied around your wrist like a slash; like a badge

to parade around town.

when you awake, she is gone. and you tread

the length of her arms to find her again. only to get lost

in her veins; to get drowned in the flow

of her streaming, angry, streaming blood. she is lost,

and you close your eyes to recall the image

of undressing her off of her white skin.