On our fourth roadtrip around the states we stopped off at the Grand Canyon
and swung our legs over the edge as close as we could;
when all the tour guides in their dusty sombreros had packed up
and driven home for supper, you removed all my clothes, one by one,
dropping them into the dirt like baby birds falling from a broken egg.
We had some trouble with my underwear so I had to loop my arm
around your shoulder to keep from falling over,
the moon so round and red in the distance it looked like a swollen mouth.
I redid your blood history; I took my love like a needle
and threaded it between your legs
until every cell cried out for mercy. On the other side of the canyon,
a wolf howled so loudly I thought it’d scare you right off,
but this is what I understand: when your mouth met mine,
Rome burned. Lightning struck. World War II started.
And through it all, through the bites on the side of your neck
that I left like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs,
through the deepening sky pressing heavy down upon us like a blanket,
the weight of our two bodies in the dust
kept pushing us closer and closer to the edge of the canyon,
until, quite truthfully,
there was no going back.