by Tehya Sky
The church bells of my throat,
what of them? Of the way this
gusty love breathes out my fluid heart,
through my willing body, billows,
sounds them off in silence
while I share these luscious truths
And the quiet wind chimes
nestle their flirtatious rapture into
each whispered syllable. And the
birds and their angel wings. And your
lips, the beatific cantadora who is
weaving these moccasins.
And your face.