The first time you spent the night in my bed, I rolled
the words around in my mouth and when you put
your hands on my belly, I mouthed them into the air:
a silent devotion, I love you (not you).
I just wanted to know how the words felt bouncing
off my cheeks, not soft or sweet but damp, crisp. A pile
of leaves on my tongue just waiting for you (you)
to jump into. But it was late, and a chill suspended itself
between the walls. I stayed silent and closed my eyes, left
at high risk for shivering, and beautiful dreams. When I woke
in the morning, your arms had grown into thick vines around
me. Maybe fucking is my I love you (maybe you). Why is it
that I stopped knowing how to write about sex when I started
getting some? Enter, jump in, roll around. Let my skin pool
around your feet and when we are done, get a towel and wipe
up what is left of me. Rake up the leaves that fall from my
mouth as you puff out your cheeks, giving your silent devotion
to the air hung between us like a curtain rod.
Leaf Jumping, Fall 2023
