To My Romanian

I am moved by how you eat your vowels,
through hungry teeth that seem made for you,

too straight and ravenous to be natural;
the smile in bass clef, the unsated tongue,

how wide your hands—like timber—turn
the pen to your touch, carving growls

into tender shoulder flesh, white as the page
receiving your notes as I speak.

I don’t mean to tell you my secrets
but your eyes hold such dangerous welcome, safety

from dark woods at night, protected by the wolf,
the owl, the mountain’s claw and tooth;

beneath business suits, ties, and shoes lie
mammals awake at night remembering

hunting down a scent, the thrilling capture,
feasting by the light of the moon.

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