She tells me her name is Beatrice
as she leans into me, lithe
with a hunger that smells
like sadness on my skin.
Her voice is sparrow-light, tuned
to the haste of retreat, the way a promise
smokes while smoldering into ash.
Still, she takes my face in her hands,
brushes the hair from my forehead,
spoons me into molasses eyes
and feathered breath — mirror
and plea, a trumpet bell