by Tessa Ekstrom

You have firemen's hands

And sleeves that burn through rivers.

There are lighthouses in your eyes,

They promise they will guide me home

And not to the rocks below.

Your lips once kissed a cadaver,

And when you were young 

You painted them bright colors.

Your tongue speaks soft violence,

It gets tangled up on sunny afternoons.

Your throat carries tattoos like a target.

Once, your fingers shot a gun.