Peccability

Alpenglow on your cheeks constellate me


to our cosmos, quickening in this heliolater


of calentures that never convalesced. Lost


in its energy, I continue bird-dogging protocols


for cushioning my passage here. It’s said:

breathing is for one’s behoof. Engird this


without forethought, and obliterate your

embroidering of my heart with thread of tendresse.

Grammar has no third choice, like guilt. 

Postcolonial Text, Vol 11, No 2 (2016)