Amorak Huey

Love Poem

There’s a song with your name in it
but I can’t listen to it

with anyone else in the room.
You slide your fingers

into my mouth and pull out
another word for this lake

we’ve made of our lives.
Each summer it goes drought-dry:

cracked field of mud,
surface of a strange planet.

What is left to say
about such distance?

What to say about rain
that our bodies don’t already know?

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