Her cheekbones are ley lines.
If wind were arabesques then in its dance
I’d breathe her face. Her lips are holy lines.
A sort of sign: The motherless still chance
to catch a tendriled whiff of womb. And I
have never won a thing before, so when
she says that I am caller number one,
I’ll clutch the phone and tuck and bend so then
my limbs can fold inside her skin and bone.
I’d die inside her if it meant that we’d
saponify. In fetus fetu. Bog-
gy girls, their legs are twisting bony things
and no corrosive such as time can drop
her lips from mine. Until my wi-fi fades
I’ll praise her name and stalk her Facebook page.
