TURGID SMOKESTORM

When the lights come on you are a smokestorm
–your turgid shape curling against a creaming wall.
You are bloated: this season’s blackberry.

You hold my baby– the treasure in the blown glass
–our mutual treasure in the blown glass.
I touch you. I let you both know that you are safe.

My henna-tinted hands, tattooed planes
surveying your sherry globe; eyeing it close.
Curl. Swirl. Remain.

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