Burnt Fingers

For Gavin

I never leave a man without a souvenir—
a name, a mole, a memory, a pearl,
how dark, how light, how his sweat glands have
scattered scents about his frame like seeds

which flower into poems. In your case,
the poem has preceded you. You are
cold water on a blister here, as I
cool a burn I got when grabbing the

handle of a hot pan. I forgot
to find a good potholder, since I thought
I was grabbing you. I bet your lips
feel better on a blister. More like ice.

Or maybe liquid nitrogen. I’ll see.