Arrested

She is that phone number I dial from hearing the buttons,
not looking at them.
Her eyes opposite her mouth--
closed.
The corners are moistened as if she sliced an onion.
Her tongue is strained upward at those two hole punches of skin.
Her breasts are swollen as if she were pregnant.
They are ripe as I push my hand to her chest for support.
Her heart throbs like an infected finger.
Her back convex; her navel stretched--
The inside resembles two daisy petals.
Her stomach is a heating pad.
Her hips, small blocks of wood, knock against mine.
She digs her fingertips into my back,
pinching and making me burn hotter than candle wax.