after Sappho
I would believe he has the power to breathe
life into pots of clay or crush the globe
into dust between his fingers
as I watch his nose, mere inches from yours,
inhaling air that carries your voice
and healthy laughter.
The peaks of your joy stab
my lungs, my diaphragm. Seeing
you smile at Jehovah-man, cracks
my ribs, leaves me incoherent, groaning.
My groin, my armpits, and underside of my tongue
blaze as if razor burned. My eyes squeeze shut
against the glare. My ears fill with unlikely tears.
My entire body weeps sweat. I’m parched
as lawns in drought. The kiss you share with him
may simply extinguish this observer.
Keith Badowski
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