I’ve met a beautiful woman,
her face native to a land
that’s not mine
but I would still recognize it.

There’s no second thought about it:
she’s native by blood,
by eyes,
by cheekbones,
by the warmth in her skin,

a warmth that transcends
her shirt, my shirt,
my skin,
finding its way toward my soul.

Lightning strikes twice
campfires and oven mitts.

What a disrespectful way
to love someone,
but I wouldn’t wait
to love her.