By Lindsey Sitler
My brother only loved as a cloud
or a bull, or not himself at all.
How am I to know how to touch you?
I have not seen a living creature
in decades, I am certain,
and your hair glows in the half-light.
Death is not my domain.
I know the lies your mother tells you
ring through your ears.
You were hungry.
How was I to let you perish?
I want to be your husband, not your king.
When I feel the bed dip in night,
and you slide in, keeping distance,
all I want is for you to press against me.
The first time I touched you,
I swear it burnt my skin. I felt alive,
and I just wanted to feel every inch.
When I watch you wake up,
it’s like I’ve finally earned the right
to live amongst the sunlight.
I have learned to fear the night,
each and every time you leave our mist.
You come home and press your mouth to mine,
and let me touch and I swear that I’m dying,
leaving you are mistress of this domain.