You’re a warrior,
armed with cinder block walls.
Sister legionnaire with fingers stuttering
down my spine.
You are a helical path across my clavicle,
the sun filled A-frame in my gut.
You are the space between my head on the pillow
and my feet on the floor.
You are a well for me to pour into.
I want to drink from your hands and know you.
I want to find your face on the surface
and slip down
until I meet the siren.
I want to touch your face, nape, arms
and have license to explore you.
You are the bottom of a hot spring,
slippery stone and encompassed warmth.
I bare my neck to your teeth
and urge you to share the weighted things
you think about at night.
Breathe at my neck and shoulder, then
learn to exhale.
You are carrying too much, Kindred,
it will drag you down.