By Hana Damon Tollenaere
for the same reasons
a wine-stained mouth
smells like a family reunion,
the only kind of perfume
you’ll need to get a favor
from me, for old times’
sake, the kind that leaves
you cold with the window
open and hot in the face,
meanwhile the dragonfly
traps prey in its front legs,
while we sip our wine,
then immobilizes it by way
of shredding its wings,
and for a minute sometimes
I lose my trajectory,
but you appear motionless
in flight, like always,
then spread your lips:
a gut-stained smile.