If only I could stop
twisting my tongue.

I don’t recall how it began.
The first time I mashed the
edges against my teeth and palette.

All week I have been burning
thoughts of you.

Now my head is hot,
smoke is rising from my ears.

I cough ash,
but already our temples
are being rebuilt.

The first night you kissed me
is the Baudhanâth Stupa.

Your naked body,
the Taj Mahal.

Each embrace:
the topiaries, canals,
sculptures and fountains in the
Gardens of Versailles.

The roof of my mouth
is a butcher’s block.