By Rhiannon McGavin
You do love them, kisses you can carry with you, a string of dark river pearls kept warm under your collar, your mouth dizzy just looking at that summer storm violet over your chest, the red velvet clouds near crackling. You love the shy ritual after, a long turtleneck to cover up tjose ruffed leaves of purple basil that blush for me and all of our mornings, worn soft— how your old blue shirt’s frayed to lace so when I wear it, with my legs swinging off the counter as you futz with tea leaves, you see plums, the plums that grow on my skin backwards: petals, wind, to your breath again.