Nights of amniotic dark so thick I can barely see through. On our bed of loam and animal bone, you purple your mouth on mine. All I taste is bellflower, though the eyes confess it is blood. How does it feel to be the reason I fall? You spit at where I open, your Revelations dog-tag, a carved silver sun hung around an apple-seed throttle. Its words cast shadows on my breast: “These are the ones who have not been defiled with women… who follow the lamb wherever he goes”. But lord, our waters and flesh, the body’s benediction that swells and thrashes. //A blue wind whips the aspen beyond the window. Command it to be silent// Your hands, an ember on my throat, you say, You’re mine, you’re mine, a litany desperate as the labor of your hips. I know I’ll soon leave this place. Hungry for any halved thing, heaven opens its moon-milk jaw and swallows the claw of a penumbra whole.