She makes love to me everyday.
We become a cross. Other times, a roasting spit.
When she slips inside, I am a pink melon,
asking for a kiss to bruise the gods.
My belly feels light. I remember being eleven,
and kneeling at the feet of Our Lady of Guadalupe--
praying for breasts, for the map of a man.
Then, I found her:
soft around the mouth;
she leaves a flutter in my ribs,
a ghost under the eaves.