Four Weeks Without Eucharist

you peeled your skin off slowly in front of me
there where we burned our feet in the snow.

you tell me i will write poems about myself
but i will not.

i could write your crucifixion
on the back of my hand.    the stairwell
    your firm shoulder
your close breath        leaves as you are

like steam     like rust and green and
avocado eyes. your burning almond eyes
your thick sap     your eyes two sunken canoes
i drowned in.

there is
your skin on my tongue.