Synapse and the Kiss

Rachel Eliza Griffiths

"It all seemed so innocent."
—a man

Our flesh bends, like painters, making
red and black and cobalt against a brick
wall near the bar. Your teeth tasting my ear. Hands making
in making, colors and the pulling, pushing and the wall—
I can't recall anything but the pressure of your stare.

I left our bodies to read a different book, a story
where the lovers snore deeply after the kiss. The space
between their ending and divorce is taut
and marvelous, firm like pink and red muscle.
I looked up from a cistern inside of me and marveled
at your darting tongue. Who are you?

Far from desire, thought, wit or flesh, the river
took me. The gin, the Jack and cokes, the screw
drivers, the bourbon, the Sauvignon, the last
call calling.

I will not apologize to us, even as our winter
lips were bleeding and bright, a war
of poppies in a field. I sat in a deep briar of neurons, painting
with my eyes closed, close
to the field where we were exploding
and calling each other the wrong name.