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.