Point one, and you’d be blind to call this a triangle,
triangular as your limbs all seem;
too many elbows, somehow,
jutted in to left angles,
one too many ribs that make each breath
sound like a butterfly earthquake between chests.
But you embrace like a moulding.
A negative degree angle,
convex,
each cell below the belly button and above the kneecap
part of some complex reaction
fusing into one another,
or
desperate to.
Hearts meet at point two,
Straight lined, so much less about sex these days,
a full-bodied unity.
The points of the hips meet softly now
as breathless kisses,
the sigh of an arm draping a shoulder in triangulation.
These bodies the rise of a steeple, the stretch of a finger,
the swoop of a wing.
But I saw us at point three
obtuse in all angles, repellant;
the touching biceps and minds wandering beyond the
conservatory door.
I’d build a ship in the space between us
and set sail for hope
were it not for the anchor of a tear
against my right-angled shoulder,
and I know these are no seas for mismeasured sails.
I know the triangular warning sign when I see it.
The back pedal got lost, in the angles between hips,
and I’m waiting for point four, an equilateral,
but triangles are only three.