A Portion of Our June

by camila hernández

under the warm mirror of an afternoon,

her body takes back its golden oil, distils the light, strums through

the sun, its bones made small, a pearl

with no shell.

i want to say

the rough strawberry of her tongue is spiked

with the prose of soft-centred citrus, a searing gentleness

felt by the cerulean air, fern eyes of filtered moss tea,

the mole on her left shoulder   is the pip of a raspberry apple

yet the peels of her skin couldn’t spoil.

i want to say

i find myself wondering how cavernous her dark eyes

could be, how exhilaration and despair sway in her irises,

what i look like to her. her body is a synonym of softness

a door, perhaps an exit. i’m swallowing silk through my

teeth to stop myself ` from doing what i want.

i want to say

that yearning for the touch of her is the greatest curse

femininity can bring and nothing could be holy enough

to save me.