If I held out the candle, paraffin burning for him,
then swallowed all the light, if
in the dark, I was a cobra’s tongue,
how could it have been his fault?
Robber baron, unzipped vagabond, he mistook me
for the comfort of a small creek, water crawling along the backs
of rocks, emerald house beside it,
me at the door in nothing
Over wine, I warned him
soft—you can’t sleep here; you won’t
In the snuffed room, my touch serrated
bit of tooth
Even a peacock feather comes to a point.
I was kissing him.