COURTSHIP

by Michael Keshigian

She handed him his heart

after she found it amid the rubble on trash day.

He gave her eyes,

a pair she lost long ago on the beach

under the boardwalk.

She gave him skin pulled from the air,

cleansed and dried it

to replace the layers of back-alley soot.

He was stunned by the purity.

She found hands for him, discovered hers

as she sewed them on his empty wrists.

For the first time in his life

he could feel as he then continued

to carefully assemble her spine,

spit shine every piece

and set it in perfect order.

It was a massive undertaking,

but he was inspired.

He attached it to her brain

and she perceived subtleties,

laughed and twisted her torso.

She attached his feet,

he stood proud and fashioned her hips,

buffing each piece in place,

they gleamed, renewed, and working well.

Finally, she mended his skull,

closed the soft spot,

tended the wound till it was smooth all over.

He fastened her throat,

and attached her breasts.

She cooed, then oiled the tips of his fingers,

he wiggled them and mended her tongue

with a delicate silk thread.

She traced his neck with soft pink scrolls,

he sunk into place between her thighs.

Two souls discarded, they gasped

as they brought each other to perfection.