by Grace Bonner
The last time I saw
white blossoms, I put
one petal
on my tongue,
stuck it
to the roof
of my mouth,
and pushed
my stocking foot up
the leg of your jeans.
But now,
when I kiss
your hand,
and your warm,
dry fingers
fill me,
and your ring
leaves fitful
traces,
this snow is dancing
on a lake
where everybody
drowns.