While clambering beneath the red sandstone cliffs
I lost my step and scraped my knee. It did not hurt much,
but still, I wanted to ask you to kiss it, you with your lips
of miracle. Surely they could cure any scratch, heal
whatever skin the rocks grazed raw. Or perhaps the wound would still
smart, but I’d be so distracted with the nearness
of you that I’d fall again and create new abrasions
in need of your kiss—this one here on my wrist,
this one here on my neck, and oh, this old bruise
on my lower right hip, um, lower, now up a little. There.
They are perilous, these rocks. A woman should not walk
here alone with the thought of you. Rather to weave herself
into the sky where there’s nothing to trip on and meet you, preferably
somewhere clear. Klutz that I am, I’d likely still fall and knock you
over, too, only there we would call it flying.