I remember your small kitchen in St. George.
You sipping coffee out of a copper mug,
me swirling the soggy Golden Puffs around the bowl.
I was mapping the exoskeleton of your layered armor
and the distance it created between us like an
oceanographer studies strange creatures
near subterranean vents. We seek
each other’s familiar warmth
like these uncomplicated organisms
sitting near the volcano before it explodes.
This corkscrew tension between us keeps me in place.