The smell of mangoes and skin seeps
into crumpled sheets unmade in the morning.
While I’m gone, a memory from the bed leaks,
returning only when I return, yet through evening searching.
Your head tucked into the crook of your arm
like a slumbering egg in an alabaster nest
under hair softer than the finest silk yarn
the slender arches of your brow’s brown crest.
This is the cradle of my arms
and you are the sleeping child,
I am the thumb in your innocent mouth,
your ivory bed soiled.
This moon is scarred by stones thrown by our stars,
but you are now the shield.
In the bright streaks above are our wishes sown,
pockmarked, the moon wanes like an eyelid slowly closing,
consciousness quietly fading,
and by this, to each other are our leashes sewn.
A floral pattern on still waves of bedsheets takes root in the field
in a country newborn, flagless, neither mine nor yours, but you the creed.
We belong to no one and nothing, but in each other we sprout answers
to the stricter questions religion and faith have to ask:
You cannot open your heart
until you close your eyes
next to the heart you search for
and when you open them again,
a warm breeze flutters through a home
without doors or windows or walls.