Ariel Gordon

Nine months: sweet nothings

I am a balloon oily with fingerprints under the shirt of this season
flaccid from escaped sips of air the friction of fingers
and the string that connects him and I is these lines
is all the words sighs songs ever exhaled between us
and now lips to belly he blows bewildered endearment
as though you were the faintest orb
a seedpod that could be dispersed with the least breeze
to me you are a series of wet sneezes
bending me double a wet wheeze a huff puff
that could kill off any wolf at any door
you are the storm that blew in humid and stayed
squatting over all the corners
and corridors of my city
but between the slow moan of the balloon
and the consumptive heave of the storm
the knot neither of us has yet to try
is that sound the lilt the tilt of the head
is always more important than sentiment