Carapace

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.

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