Stacia M. Fleegal

You Induce

similes—they erupt from me, ignite
cognizance the way we like it best
and emulsify meanings we can’t cram
into boxes, bags, or bodies at rest.

           Slam me like impassioned poetry.
The headboard creaks; we grin, we sin, we don’t
care. Your hair is like strong coffee, black toffee,
and I stop you right there, when I start to care,

like—dammit!—the old me who can only
laugh outside, inside twists intent
and effect, forgets the comparative
bridge the “like” makes.           Deep breath like hurricane.

Like banana, velour, speckled—your skin.
Simile: safer than metaphor’s tailspin.


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