We hold each other at gunpoint,
whisper our love in languages
that don’t quite fit in our throats.
we wedge these ill-fitting words
into the spaces between our teeth;
tell each other we’ll get used to it -
get used to the pressure, the
ever-constant shifting, the taste
of blood and copper and salt.
Your name is a consonant I
can’t get my tongue to master.
Your body is a continent I
can’t get out of my rear-view.