Tick Season Fresh again from summer and its fields of unrepentant grass, we strip down in the dooryard of my little house, check each other over for ticks. By now we have outlived embarrassment, though of the naked pastimes, this one remains the more intimate: what shapes we make in the flashlight’s chiaroscuro, interrogating every mole, every freckle, before kissing them, an apology to the innocent for such accusations. Not often but sometimes I’ll spot one walking across your wet skin, movement as misquoted shibboleth. I ferry the little liar to the fireplace, careful to burn what might have come between us. Like you, I do not want this but I want this. The betrayal of the struggle to keep still.
Continued here