Spilled Ink

tempest-at-noon:

Bodies dripping yellow,
gold,
lantern faces burning
warm-breathed glow,
searing ruddy cheeks
in the middle where 
palms are gentle for
the first time since 
the light was stolen
from their homes.

Their cotton were 
hastily stitched in
broken-glass shops,
torn at the seams 
where fingers scraped
against thighs, so
they left their clothes
home in Denmark
because it was much
too warm here, in
the summer, and
they were told to 
keep the luggage
light.  

The papers told them
to hide so they stashed
their touches away
behind closed doors
to the annexed room,
smuggling sugar for
their sweet, sanguine
tongues like the rebels
they fell in love as.

Their breaths stepped
in line behind the 
soldiers outside 
since adrenaline
courses through veins
like the tea they’re
not allowed to buy,
and they’re making
love in the dark when
the light is off because
everyone wants them
dead.