Your confident hands, your voice entering me, the way you look insistently beyond layers, allowing nothing to be meaningless . . . it�s like every clue in the movie Chinatown. Each layer of you I peel back leads to another mirrored universe. Love, you run my desire ragged as Jack Nicholson down labyrinths of curiosity, from the raw smoke of your mouth, the broad thrum of your body, your collarbone, your tight temples to the brazenness of your mind entering the world, the way it rips away fear and yet remains na�ve. And when your mind needs rest� find me.
Shout
The clues lead to the search, and this is the best of the thing I�ve always thirsted for, crossed borders for: an intricate landscape I don�t understand that jolts me, that I travel with respect and a spice of fear. When I try to articulate loving you, discovering you (like Chinatown), it comes down to something mysterious and basic as water and a shout of joy.
Naomi Thiers has published poetry and fiction in many magazines. She published a book of poetry, Only the Raw Hands Are Heaven, with Washington Writers' Publishing House in 1992. She lives in Arlington, Virginia, with her daughter.
