by Lindsey Wayland

Good love begins with
the faintest pheromone,
sea kelp washed up on some shore,
the mercurial pulse of a thunder storm,
an apple crisp cooling on the sill,
grapefruit mist, tomato vine sap, cedar wood,
an excitement held in a frame, still and naked life.
Then, you sweat on key with the tides,
your skin more open than ever before,
seeds growing from each pore—
every hair a fragrant blossom,
every I replaced with We.

In the depth that follows
a great kiss
you can smell Aphrodite
like wild rose hips and white dove feathers,
even your fearful, unlovable, unworthy self
inhales deep down into her womb
toward the creation,
the garden,
the apple.


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