A Little Closer to the Edge

Young enough to believe nothing

will change them, they step, hand-in-hand,

into the bomb crater. The night full

of  black teeth. His faux Rolex, weeks

from shattering against her cheek, now dims

like a miniature moon behind her hair.

In this version the snake is headless — stilled

like a cord unraveled from the lovers’ ankles.

He lifts her white cotton skirt, revealing

another hour. His hand. His hands. The syllables

inside them. O father, O foreshadow, press

into her — as the field shreds itself

with cricket cries. Show me how ruin makes a home

out of  hip bones. O mother,

O minutehand, teach me

how to hold a man the way thirst

holds water. Let every river envy

our mouths. Let every kiss hit the body

like a season. Where apples thunder

the earth with red hooves. & I am your son.