AARON ANSTETT
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Satellites

          That’s us in the satellite photographs,
          in flagrante delicto through the atmosphere.

          You can tell by the tattoos: starfish ashore on your ankle,
          daggered Ace of Spades bloodless on my shoulder blade.

          You’re pressing your knuckles to my vestigial tailbone.
          I’m saying something urgent to your jugular vein.

          See: that pile’s what we wore that day: your mismatched lingerie,
          my NASA boxer shorts and T-shirt with wine stains.

          It seems, at least, we’ve bathed, but the soles of my feet
          shine with calluses. Your toenail polish has flaked.

          Thank gravy we’re not wearing outfits, or, heavens,
          playing Prison Escape. By the sunlight on our bodies,

          it’s neither early nor late. Something shadows my face.
          Your eyes are closed. You’ve made a cradle of your legs.