Below the belly of the common moth every kiss is a ghost note of local lore. From the heirloom melon patch a waist cries out for another waist, rose stem lassos begin to unfurl. We blunder restless through the poplar grove like apathetic angst maidens to yoke our throats to the clover, I press a tulip bulb to the roof of my mouth, and stand chest deep in the pond water, confident that in regards to my heart this will be the year of the aviator, when I’ll be smitten once again in the circus dirt.
But my authentic self is a face forged of broken wagon sounds in the paper doll atrium of poorly drawn hearts. I’m still honing little black lake stones for the diffident navel of an old friend. I can’t carry a pudding dish of hot breath to the apple stand of motel moans while haunted by the charms of a trellis bridge pony listlessly chewing an orange blossom in a heliotrope head wreath.
Regardless of our passionate efforts to raise our mother’s fabric shears toward the stained crinoline of the moon, to finger a line of milky thread down to our shallows to seal our paper valentines, we’ll never rectify the fate of the luckless mouths that fold their dessert spoons of devotion against the bathtub bottom used to collect rainwater, and orphan their ribbons during feral confessions shoulder blades pressed against the hutch glass.