By Autumn Stiles ’14
Salamanders are crawling
out of your mouth,
moonlight held
in the palms of their backs,
tiny and black
bellowing breath after breath.
They’ve come again
and you’re frightened,
flushed like chilli peppers
rubbed on soft skin,
dark skin
your skin –
like salamanders
conjured from
your belly’s rotting wood.
“Back Beasts!” you cry,
but we both know
they always come
after love-making,
our bodies still glowing
with the glory of the tension,
each visit briefer
than the last.
Yet we keep
and the sun, it rises
and the chasm, it closes swallowing salamanders
chilling the flame.