This kiss, lips soaked-dripping with bitter milk. This butter curl above his ear. This lip scrunched and pressed clumsy under freckled chin. This halo-pudge-body wrapped around my neck. These hands, full of stick & hair & can- dy residue. This place I’m allowed to love. He says go up in skies, a spell for us. My legs—full of green veins & tremble—are the piece of blue sky he flies over. My chest—creaking & pulling with empty—now a field of yellow horses. We chant 2— 5—6. We use his spell. My mouth the noise of his wings. His tongue a pinkish raincloud. A thunder. A folding tangle. We. Us.