Dorianne Laux

We fall open like windows
hinged at the hip. In our house,
in our bed. We fall apart
like walnut halves,
like sheet music,
like French doors.

Your hand is a glove of fire
on my thigh, my fingers
are torches.  In our house,
in our bed, the earth breathes
beneath us, the pitched roof
snaps off and flies past
the shoulders of the sky.

Somewhere a piano unleashes
its teeth and you taste the bitters
at my cup's chipped lip, our clothes
fall down at the foot of the bed.

In our bed rain falls, a warm
shower, birds huddle in the arms
of the cheap chandelier, lizards
leave their tails in the toes
of our shoes, in our house
where everything is allowed.