You shoulders are erected in her image,

dry clay carved by her fingers.

And I am a visitor

thumbs locked into the crooks your temples,

legs spread eagle-wide straddling 

whatever love has flown you

to this mountaintop.

But your lips, cold-pressed against mine, 

Tell a story

Of opposing poles meeting

Like rainfall in April

Under an umbrella of sunshine.

I meet you where her heat no longer

reddens your fire

and that is all I am

a coil

used to ignite a furnace

used to warm your forever home.

So soften in her arms now.

I have been a class act

and you, my muse

Climbed your mountain, 

jagged stone by stone,

then fell gracefully

like snowflakes onto a hiker’s brow

and melt away—