Ferruginous means red and tastes
like cinnamon. We draw

maps with spices. I trace
a border along your jaw

with salt’s roughness.
I see your eyes

as a divine country
of tides. My spine

is alert when the wind casts
me in waves, as an illusion

of a winged thing
when all I want is

collision. Let us keep
our gravity, this perpetual

gasp and rise, lit
by the flame. Tell me

the ways north and south,
tell me what is

beyond this reverberation.
You’ll never

stop singing—

Shelley Wong