Barefoot and Listening

When I do not know if I am a stone or a doe
you gather up handfuls of pebbles,
give them to me to collect in my pockets.

Each one leaves a tiny dent in your palm.

We tumble like circus girls,
fingers tangled and thighs firm, always
away from the sunlight,

joints bent backward and arms over our heads.

Breath sweet like bread and raisins, 
tongues glowing coals, we open
our mouths and stars dive in.

They crowd our throats, singe our hair.

They are the reason you have lines
on your face and my lips bleed, the reason
each night we are together we can stand silence,

wait for sound to come or air to rush in.