Holga

Gossamer eyelids holding

images of evergreens, sweating

you out in unwelcome dreams. 

Half-sunlight flooding 

vision. Burnt orange, balmy, skin glowing 

under the crush of the dawn, your fingers, 

lips, teeth covered in the blood 

of pomegranates. Skin rubbed raw, but mending, 

sheets stained with cherry Kool-Aid

as you traced my wrists

and I called you Doubting Thomas.