By Emily Morelli

Fire, your longing, your
long-throated longing--

I'm holding you not because you
need to be, but because
honesty ripples like a salve

through your throat, your eyes,
your fired-up muscles, all the initial
spark of egg meets sperm.

Crash and bang, my wave,
my magma.
Sweep us
out of our chair to primal landscapes.

I ought to feel guilty
to love that orange ignition--
to hope for it.