María José Giménez



less eager
than ardor
in my tongue
ardor can mean
something else
under the skin
a gentle fire
    like sunburn
almost shivering
almost burning
like fresh woven
skin re-membering
a wound
     almost moist
     the comforting
weight of heat
a collared cape
inside a ribcage
hung over lungs
     under clavicle
     and scapulae
the way desire
and heartache
long together
a smoldering shroud
a shedding of skin
like ash
     flaking off slow
     cooling embers
remembers fire

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have taken up residence in my writing. Poetry is my body—the only home I will never leave or be exiled from.