I grabbed your leg which was hot with my hand which was cold.
I had a cackle of crows nip at your ankle.
When you turned to look at them they hid, leaving only the sound of a shadow.
I blindfolded and spit on you and screamed that it was raining.
I lit little fires just out of reach so you couldn't feel their heat and I smiled.
I read a book to you in a language you were trying to forget.
I kissed each of your toenails but wouldn't look you in the face.
I worshipped you as a goddess but called you by the wrong name.
When strangers passed, I noticed your cheek blush and demanded an explanation.
You sang a song that put me to sleep.
When I asked you again the next morning, you ignored the question. You kissed me and said, I was having the strangest dream. There was a bird behind the moon, but he wouldn't show himself to me. I looked at you in your colorful jail suit and kissed you back. You closed your eyes because this was supposedly a love story, but I kept mine open. The bird behind the moon peeked at me. I tossed him your jail key, and he flew away. Later, I apologized, but on a leaf, in writing. I swallowed it and now it's hidden in the place before my tongue begins.
Mikko Harvey lives in Columbus, Ohio. His poems appear in journals such as the New Haven Review, Coconut, PANK, and Juked.