we order thai, and wait. the deliveryman
whistles merci, bon nuit. white styrofoam
squeaks open with a waft of warmth and spice,
peanut sauce in the smallest box. soon
all our dishes are orange, and our tongues
thrum with tamarind and coriander.

sometimes when your lips cinnamon
mine, my mouth insists it is a camera -
lips precisely pursed into aperture, my teeth proffer
a calibrated array of shutter speeds; my tongue flips up
like a mirror, and my viewfinder eyes
synchronously close. my tonsils
have been amputated long ago, as if
i have forgotten to load my film. even so,
our lips unclasp with a tiny click,
as if some salival mechanism
has reconciled light and time, imprisoning
an inconsequential glimpse of you. too close
to be in focus, the emulsion in my mouth
mulls a blurry efflorescence, kernels of colour
bursting round and warm and orange, like the fireworks
of fish sauce that garnish your lips
and freckle the faces of our plates.