By Zoe

She could sip wine from the caverns created by my collar bones during my
witching hour heartbreak, quench the thirst of my dying marrow
with the golden residue her lips leave behind.
She could feather herself over every inch of rusted rain evaporating
out of me, and coat my palms in the silver her body crafts from my withered
butterfly bones.
She could whisper away my eucalyptus shell molars
inside I cradle the lasts of every three marble saints,
and she could pour crushed velvet liquor over the asphalt cavities
that know only the faint reflection of bruised peach pits, crumbling.
She could spill molten spirit dust into the spines of my beginner’s-vase chest;
it erupted in the presence of the blaze,
she will weave it back together with seething gold,
and once the flowered shards are whole again,
she will take the scarred relic between every language she has touched and
from it she will sip wine.