God, your lips.
Wait, not that “god”.
Just your lips.
In lesbian love
with each other,
ripped that masculinity
from the Aegean
in ancient times,
they did
on some days, in some regions.
Then why not now?
Why can’t the air be ours?
Or why not the fruit trees by the
weathered windows from Naples?
Why is winter always judged?
Your lips do this thing to me
when the hearth fire burns,
endless rains fall from the sky,
and my bones feel cold, mineral,
and hollow.
Your lips; slain, succulent and laid out
in my mind across everyday for
the rest of living,
similar to sunrises
in so many collected mortal eons.
They uplift a TV repair shop
in Oregon,
upholding what must be heaven.
They turn from smooth beige
and melt into translucent metal.
Do they?
They do.
They melt my flower.
novamartinpoetry.com 