by Nina Benites

meteorologists couldn’t explain why the air that day felt like saguaro spikes
sharp grass bounced once more in the instant, honey-soaked electricity between us

two weeks later we sprawled on that same green, cautiously
you asked, “should I have waited?” while I traced opal hieroglyphs into your side

the night before, the delicious whisper of embarrassment dusted
my cheeks, those balls of dough you used to poke

fun at and my nakedness then felt banal compared
to the vulnerability of sunlight at 2pm. two weeks was plenty, I guessed

and what physicist could have outlined our projectile when
there were more possibilities of phylogenetic trees than protons

in the universe and biologists still didn’t know which one was right? with that,
we gratefully lifted our faces to the sun and let ourselves explore:

tickle of sweet and the taste of lightyears coated our tongues, gentle
pleasure taken in eyes crinkled, salty backs, and the pink flesh of sliced watermelon

to geologists, it felt like lava looks -impenetrable, starving for more. I, too, hungered
for more nights to poke and prod and revel in the unreliable knowledge that we are