During every weekend you’ve given me,
it’s like there’s a glut of afterglow and
we’re waitin’ for the greasy hash browns
at Joe’s Diner when we’re spent from lovin’.
At 2am, you say, “Play number 14, Babe.”
It’s Frank, always Frank, and my feet are
bare resting on yours, forget the hash browns.
I have wanted to write you
about the end of day samba
in the corner. How it flashes
furiously of gold – the sun’s
sparkling champagne –
in one of many ways nature
writes love letters. I have
wanted you to see it as I have
since they took the dead tree
and left behind the most
beautiful light orchestra!
I asked God if he had a best friend.
I asked Him if He was inside lions, too.
I asked Him what hurt Paris. Then I
changed my mind. I made a deal with
Him: if I stayed close, He would, too.
I asked Him about Mom’s wine spritzers.
He didn’t know. I said that He could talk
too sometimes. I told on my Dad when he
hit Mom the time I hid in the closet. Dad
stopped living with us after that. God
moved away, too.
Night will never be daybreak.
The valley, unlike mountains.
My desire is for sunrise across
our unmade bed when we are
the disarray of loving.
The wind today was so certain,
so sure that fall had returned
with its bluster that I never!
And how dare! And who said
you could kiss me unforgettable?!
The bones of trees, those
left for winter winds to muscle,
are clacking against the frozen
bodies of clouds. Oh Gentle, you
have given them such patience
to wait for the bounty of a world
that stumbles and crawls on its
way to flower.
The dock where crabs would hang
onto the bait in cold waters of mid-June,
then fall away and back in – where
he always made sure I got in
the dinghy safely on Sunday mornings,
my white pumps in hand, my life jacket
wrinkling my new summer dresses
as we motored our way to church
from the island where we became
engaged – having fallen in love forever,
jumping off and in.