Once, a boy touched me
on my nose, the squat slope
unlike his own. If our
bodies were land, his
was full of ridges, cliffs dark
under snow, jagged spectacles-
and parting the folds together, we
found mine: a small yellow plain.
We fingered the grass. Felt its
cold tear our fingers, our
hands shifting, separating
soil from soil. Cotton blooms
bowed their blown heads