Elizabeth Morris

Patterning

Broken skylight, raining partition
across the concrete floor.
You start skiing through, detaching
feet from ground from oxygen,
ribboning red into your hair
with glass beads tied in,
stripes and shards.
Fourth and weakest force of physics,
though the most easily accessible, still
dragging you back to carpet square we
snagged from the dumpster and insist on
calling a throw rug. Cringe against my worry,
give in and get down,
snowpea. Land in a handstand, and I’ll
snap this mouth shut, lock it with your tongue-key,
and believe you.

These kisses licked your
neck like nettles, tapped your
face like stings, sucked the oil
hovering like a shield on the surface
straight from your pores. To your feet,
hopskipping up and then down, trying to fight
the verticality of being too
tall for these simple things.
I’ll polka dot your nose with mine.
Try to pull your floppy
ragdoll arms off the ground, snowpea.
Try to stay awake for just awhile
longer. Count your pods of toes, still
got ten? See, there’s balance, that
part’s real. Me? I’ve got nine,
but I’m still counting.