by Allison Eir Jenks
The octave of us is an avenue
of blackbirds with marbleized wings
As the blacksnake licks the bobcat
in a Herculean daze.
Your impotent homeland spread
the last deep sea of freckles
on your icy, olive face.
Your blemished hands belong on you like
Auburn liquor on pale blue tablecloths.
I swim in the black of your eye until it
liquefies like blues in autumn.
We talk like friends of jewel and berry bandits
Erasing halls of bored handwriting.