My body shows how easily it turns, met
by a hard-edged skeleton, the clavicle bone
poking out as if to say, this angle alone
is begging to be touched. To let

your finger run softly, against it, a threat
of danger is always there, but right now, none
exists, just the pounding heart, that drones
pinching my breath, pulling my skin’s barrette

taut in anticipation as if you knew how to lay
the satin of want into the half-open fortune
cookie of my body. There is no solution or truth
to desire except what instinct shows as the way

into the marrow of me, into the electrostatic air
I breath. I become an explosion, a shooting star.