waterlogged
Somewhere between
the pasta
and tiramisu I felt you
half-letting go last night,
as I have half-come half-
gone from the start.
             All night the moon
rained, pushing its force
from the west, from the north.
I dreamed of fire in my hands
and my mother watched
as I cried. The morning
whispered, waking us, leg over leg,
feet fastened.
It's been hours
since your words swept
soft across my lips, across my
hair as it teased
against your chest.
You chose your words like a
full-bodied red,
letting them breathe, drinking
their sounds back in
from my lips.
             The morning is waterlogged,
heavy as a pregnant breast.
It spills, woven
from a string of petals,
falling to the ground
of you.

Mia Moore