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.