in summer the heat was hungry for all the skin
it could reach: my throat & eyelids, your
hands. the camera doesn’t want me running on instinct
any more than i do. only likes me logical, clever
in the way of icefield precision. cut-glass figurine, never
straying from the script. nothing in nature cracks
this clean. my silence will always outlast yours
& it will never be a victory. when we were children

we played sword-swallowers to keep our teeth
filed sharp, even the tiger-tamer afraid of peering down
our throats. still—

​

                                    i don’t know how to unlearn
the tenor of your panic, the terror of your calmness,
the way i keep saying you until the faces blur
into both everyone                   & nobody at all.