Concealed by a mosquito net,
We whisper frantic, fevered terms.
A look, a kiss, caress confirms —
The fragrant earth, so dark and wet —
What words have rendered unexpressed.
The din of birds and insects wanes
And waxes overhead. Remains
Of savage otherness confessed
Diffuse into the sluggish air.
Calescent tears upon my chest,
I soothe, I love, and facing west,
I feel your fingers in my hair.
Published in Penn Review Volume 46, Issue 2