moist in soft darkness,
the fevered muscles of my thighs
beneath. I want you to know
what happens in my body when
I love you, where the echoes rise from,
how the loose soil of the shoreline gets smooth
and slick and tightly packed when
the river laps and laps in solid
rhythms, how my throat opens with your
name. I want your hand
to carry this knowledge with you,
for the cells of your fingers to remember
the fibers of your muscles to recall, to hold
you when you lay awake in your bed
beside the river, an image there to slip
clean over wild Alaska rocks at sundown.
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