I carry you.

I bask in suns of your countries marked in lines on your face, years too soon. Deep in you, I see you, in your brown-hazel eyes, when you speak. It nourishes me to know what is most cherished by you, what makes you glow, who broke you, and how to make you whole. I feel the sand…

Somewhat wet, and cushioning my feet and all the arches, and the reflex points making me lean into you, unequivocally. You slide your hand down the middle of us two, grabbing between fingers, me feeling all the work in your life. The earth melting across my toes. You are just beside me, holding me up so I do not fall. You speak quietly in a southern tenor tessitura and baritone note, from lyrics on your side of the globe, “I’m here, Queen. I carry you.” I know. And I curl up into the rest of you.

Between Jerusalem and Mexico, a taboo love.