You pick lemon basil off the stem—
feed me green beans wet with dew.
In the center of our garden,
there is a fish sculpture of adobe.
It has carved eyes, gills,
a hollow mouth full of stones.
Each is a relic from the ground.
The fish has swallowed earth instead of sea.
I study its broken, puckered lips
opened to sky as though gasping from depths.
That night I dream the stones are eggs.
The fish is a mouth-brooding male.
How often have you cradled me this way—
in the warmth of your kiss, my life between your lips.
Published by Aldrich Publishing