Your skin is made of light,
Your eyes glow like the sun seen through
a glass of ale, in sleepy summers
ten thousand years ago, before MRI's,
before mortgages, before hesitation.
Your ribs settle into my palms,
flexible as a girl's. You twist and laugh
and nuzzle like an otter.
Death tried to hold you, but he got greedy:
he pulled too hard and lost his grip, and
you were out of his hands.
We are marked where he seized us.
We are burnt, fragile, stretched out of shape
like a wet-dog sweater worn in the rain
by an obese cousin;
and of course
Death gets us in the end. But not yet.
When you kiss me
you stick your tongue out at him.