by Amy Kuta
I am in the old library
and all I can think about is
making out with you among the musty books.
Backs up against titles you would like:
The Memoirs of God
Manual of Canon Law
The Roots of Tantra.
We could absorb the words through
their dust and our sweat.
Absorb The First Age of Christianity.
I bet there’s some steamy stuff in that.
We’d become bursting with knowledge and lust
then press against the 1970s serigraphs of produce:
eggplants tumbling into buggies,
whole slices of watermelon torn and missing.
You could hold me against the art
and I would absorb the fruit,
as I have absorbed each word you’ve given me.
Your hands interlocking my hands,
holding me so that I don’t know where I am:
not a student
not a mother
not an inhabitant of this third-floor library.
Just a mote on a spine of a book we are writing.