I’m kissing you on rooftops and your mouth
tastes like fresh kill and copper blood.
Your hands are bowstrings on my skin;
the way you crash them into me has arrows
shooting straight into my heart.
Touch the moon with me, you say,
and we’re pulling it along with us and we’re drunk
on laughter and starshine, the crook of your arm
slender and warm around my waist
as we careen through the midnight sky.
When I walk into battle you are always
by my side. It took me a few decades to realise
that you are doing this not for the hunt
but for me.
(I am still not used to the idea.)
You point to the stars and show me the
constellations you have helped create (I do
not miss the way your voice hitches at Orion,
the way you gleam with silver anger for a moment).
I know the stories but I listen anyway.
My owl sits on your hand. Bright-eyed Athena,
you whisper, and I want to tell you that you are the
reason for their gleam. I don’t. The way
your lips trail up my body (the way your eyes
stay locked on mine) tell me that you already know.