At the hour of the wolf,
when we can see the craters
of the moon’s luminous face,
and the air is thick with silence,
when the first light of morning
is still hours away, lean over me
and become, for a moment, dangerous,
as if you are here to hunt for my blood.
Bruise my throat.
Leave your mark, so when day arrives,
I can proudly display the blue swollen sphere
shaped by your lips and tongue, so that they
will all know, and whisper, and flutter fingers
to their own throats and try to remember
the last mouth that marked them.