Such a large thing to give you, but I’ll try.
Against my warm pillow, your ears are smaller,
but more than that, they lobe like drops of rain,
not at all like the bull’s grey flags, half-mast.
I can never take you to my home—Zimbabwe—
to see one, because knowing how impossibly
small your ears, how imperfect my approximations,
is too much to return from. I would rather give you
something else—foreign to us both: your ears
dripping with rain as I kiss softly into your neck,
before Lingshan, the mountain of souls.
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