amphibial love poem 

my skin breathes like jellyfish veils 
& white shoes made of butter.
queer love is the breathing flesh.
the craving of water
even when we are on land. 
i ask you, in the cool dark 
of my old bedroom, "do you remember
the bottom of the lake?"
when we, frog-hearted, burrowed
in the mud for the winter?
clementine peeled sun. our webbed hands.
sometimes we are walking 
in an eyeball pit & i do not think
anyone knows exactly what to do with us.
we are the sacred mismatched socks.
the story of liminal blood.
conduit or courier. carrying 
a letter beneath our tongues.
it reads, "you are not home."
this is why though we have scissors 
to cut the tongues of angles.
make bouquets of languages 
we will never speak. emerge, like 
paper weights, from the bottom
of the lake. i woke up because
i crave you & i am alive 
in your throat. sing to me again
about what you remember
of our gills. combing the water
for a species to say, "this is what i am."
i no longer wish for such a name.
if someone asks me again
what i am or what i call myself
i will say, "i am your lover."