There is an ancient Roman legend that claims the toucher destroys the touched.
If that is true, then I have dissolved countless times beneath your body
as the stars fade away slowly into the night sky with the pull of the moon.
“Muerto” means dead in Spanish, but how many times
has your birthday come and gone
without you blowing out a single candle? My father spent each new year
celebrating with a bottle of whiskey instead of the family.
We dream of one another’s tongues and awaken kneeling,
as if praying at an altar.
Our kisses are churches that still shine, holy, in the light.
Our skin is a miracle that the priest blesses
with water and wine. We are all being baptized in the pool
of our own longing.
The apples grow swollen on their stems during summer,
as if ripening simply for the touch of steady hands,
to be plucked with wild abandon.
Oh, sweet melancholy, those apples were never better
than when fed to one another
with paring knives and quick fingers.