The weather crouches
and readies herself to leap
into the basin of warmth and rain.
She loosens the towel of winter
at her waist and lets it fall.
I wish I were a lifeguard.
I wish I could loose a shrill blast
from an orange whistle,
seize her wrist,
close the pool:
lock us on the cusp
of the last cold snap,
all because spring is coming
and all the days of it
will slip by
with you in your city
and I in mine.
My hand is empty.
How can I walk
through the garden
and show you
the fresh buds ready to burst?
the purple gillyflower,
the pink ranunculus,
the white lisianthus
with the tips of her petals
dipped in paint?
The bees like little doctors
have begun their rounds,
and today, a grasshopper
tanned his long legs
on the porch rail.
Pause the seasons
until you are here
and I can share these
little beauties of life
I don’t ask much.
Let weather only wait
until we are together again —
then she can dive,
then can spring wash us
in hot greenery,
in the blossom of the sun.
My heart wears yellow sunglasses.
My heart wears satin in blues, wears all the hues
of a flower garden bloomed in finger and paint.
My heart wears galaxies in shades of bruise.
My heart wears cedar faces, my heart chases places
magical and strange, my heart wears card games
my laughing heart laughs, wears song after song
until my heart sleeps and music plays on.
My heart wears long into the night.
My heart wears dizzy the flesh and scent of orange.
My heart wears dizzy in love.
My heart wears wind, wears sand, wears stars,
wears the thousand tail lights of a thousand cars.
The thigh of my heart wears fire;
the hip and shoulder of my heart wears plum.
My heart in my mouth wears desire,
my heart moans slick with desire,
my heart wears my mouth,
but my heart goes north while I go south.
My heart wears away like away is a dress,
and my love for my heart is not little or less
for my heart being elsewhere and away.
My heart will wear yesterday until yesterday becomes
the next day I hold my heart in my hands again
and kiss the lips of my heart
and the throat of my heart,
until I wear my heart and my heart wears me again.
What have you done to me?
Morning wakes light
in the window.
I pull away the covers
and lift myself up,
but my bones fall out
between the sheets.
You are still asleep;
the sun creeps across your lips
and my skeleton beside you
cups your breast in his hand,
his bones fat-yellowed
and marrowed out with desire;
I leave your side and leave my love
beside you, I leave all
the white osteology of my love.
Is my love macabre?
My love rattles.
My love clatters and clacks,
my love snaps and pops at the joints.
I cannot quiet it.
I can try to bury
all the raw cartilage and calcium
of my love, I can try to crack it
and mortar it down
to so much grey dust,
but my love must be bone:
it wrestles under the muscle
and blood of my love,
under the skin of my love,
the bones of my love are what
the tendons and tissues of my love
bind to when I love you.
My love is lunate and scaphoid.
It is vertebral, sternal, my love
is cranial and pelvic and hyoid.
My love is two hundred and six
bone white statements of my love.