This you is the flour of my crust, the
golden palm into which I, dark
persimmon, fall as asked, to be absorbed
by your deep, warm folds. O, other half,
I want nothing more than time with
you, days pressed in a bed of language
in the circumstance of inevitable,
communing with our former selves
in eye-light. Prick me and I still quiver.
Press your mouth hard against my seared
flesh. Cast your words and retrieve them
with your tongue, the sugars melting,
bonding at the core, together forever,
one sweet whole, an insurmountable we.
Robert Okaji (@robertokaji) served without distinction in the U.S. Navy, and once won a goat-catching contest. The author of multiple chapbooks, his poetry has appeared in Book of Matches, Taos Journal of International Poetry & Art, Buddhist Poetry Review, and elsewhere.