But let me explain–there is this
disobedient coyote who lives
in my throat, howling for skin like the moon.
Tonguing broken teeth for the nerve
that’s connected to the scream bone.

She believes in open windows for altars.
The black pagan desert of the skies.

I have tried, believe me, to trim
her elegant toenails, build a fence that would
echo-proof these plains. But, goddamn,
she can wail steel bars into cattails
and my lips are not barbed wire. They part
like the sky to her monsoons.

Like all predators, she is born when breath meets skin.
She is tectonic breakdance. Aftershock bliss.
I’m sorry if the sound of crumbling foundations
keeps you awake all night.

You spiral through the house,
grinning hurricane, windy suck-marks
on my skin where your point touches.
I should have said tornado.
We should have never taken off
our shoes, the floor is too sticky,
my thighs are too sticky
with tequila and salt.  The Greek-
derived word for the process
by which body converts beer into fuck
is not photosynthesis.
I can’t remember what it is.
Lift me onto the sink,
sink your teeth into my shoulder
and kiss me like a swordfight.
Kiss an equinox on my throat.
Everyone is watching
everyone else watching everyone
else watching you with your hand
under my skirt.  Everyone
is pretending to dance.
I didn’t mean to say equinox, the night
is obviously much shorter than
the day, the night has fallen to
its knees.  You have drunk
nearly all the night and put
it back in the refrigerator
with three sips left.  Baby, we’re almost
out of night.