The way the dragonfly
across your chest stares at me,
through a lawn of pinwheel hairs;
and the way your beard
tickles me in such a way
that I believe at any minute
you are going to accumulate
flannel and chop me a tree
subtly confuses how I feel
now that we have played
a skilled game of ring toss.
I am used to our conversations
while you drag quill and ink
across my skin and leave scars
in all the right places.
But the way you look at me
a masterpiece to be devoured,
and poisonous makes me
ask if you can scratch my back
for hours,
but nipples get raw
being rubbed like sweatshirts
against bare skin all day.
I don’t know how I feel about
palindromes now,
but I know how you feel
when you make it snow inside
and hand-rolled cigarette
smoke fills the room
chasing ferrets through sheets
leaving bruises in the shape of dental x-rays.
How does it feel,
Once all of your tattoos have met?