New Jeanland

your voice arrives first,
dark grain
through the room,
a low note worrying
the rim of my glass.

I miss the beginning
of what you say,
then catch the turn:
something dry,
precise,
a little wicked.

the sentence opens
like a knife
without ever becoming one.

I laugh
with my mouth full of wine.

you look pleased,
but only briefly.

then that voice again,
smoke dragged
over gravel,

something I feel
warm and low in my belly
before I understand.

I should be listening
to your argument.

instead
I am watching your mouth
shape the next sharp thing.