by which I mean ripe with longing— much like me, breath the rhythm
of a windstorm, as your eyes flit to the sky tearing itself open, the screaming
reds bruising into nightfall. And my eyes are on the crescent moon-shaped scar
beside your right brow, your eyes amber as the darkening sky, standing so close
our heartbeats match in rhythm, that steady ba boom ba boomba boom.
How I lead your mouth to mine, turn to the animal you make of me,
too ravenous to release, to be released, even as the sirens draw near
as, a mile away, a forest goes up in flames. Call it thirst or hunger—this need
to take something into my mouth to avoid demise. You pull back,
lashes against my cheek, breath making my hair stand on end. I’ve wanted you
since the weather got warm, you say. Here, the weather is always warm—
especially with these fires, turning trees into stakes. Not enough water to quell
the blazes, trunks hot as our want, our mouths the taste of smoke.
Despy Boutris Despy Boutris’s writing has been published or is forthcoming in Copper Nickel, Ploughshares, Crazyhorse, AGNI, American Poetry Review, The Gettysburg Review, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. Currently, she lives in California and serves as Editor-in-Chief of The West Review.
