Turtle Moon
I.
you did it, kissed at the airport,
full-lipped in front of
badged, creased-polyester-slacks-
batoned-in-lust-looking-at-us-limp-
jawed-thumbs-behind-thick-security-
belt-men.

In front of the 20 piece waterpolo
team of hot breath and smoking saliva
playing the porno slide
slow, clicking women in reverse
off the whites of their eyes.

You did it in front of the 80 year old
woman in stern shoes, whose permed
set bubble unscrolled down from God,
lacquered straight from the sight of us.

You did it anyway, kissed me with
swollen lips broken open like the first
bite of an August peach, drizzling down
my chin, and I held on to you like the
sides of swings resigned to soften
steeples, surge over spires.
I held on like it was life
or death I was meant to die,
to believe our bodies are art
a best, estimations, paintings on shells.

II.
Turtle Moon,
I walk Praha in a fevered trance,
cross bridges burning footprints
into 14th century stone, itís only
inside of night Iím able to see my
heart out of itís rind, starburst
and splayed alligator eyed, and
for the first time in my life
I understand the yield of an offering,
the way you walked me into the airport,
took my bit of bread, bite of fish, and
how we fed the world with one kiss.

Daily,
The world is a kin
Of fossilized cave drawing.
Nothing exists but you, and
Mountains that puncture clouds,
Their halos, and the racing wings
That watch over us.

Keelyn T. Healy