How wow am I? How smooth? Smooth enough to know
that this video I produced of you eating honey in the middle
of a great field of sparklers is going to make you kiss me.
I don't miss any life, but the weather report tells me
today was considerable, and a shooting star just shot by
and your hands are already cupped about my ears, and I'm
dreading the next few seconds simply because they can't be
right now, and I guess that's all missing you really is.
And I will love your lips for making such beautiful shapes. O
a word we can't wait to get our mouths into. A word, O
an apostrophe. Any more and we'll start listing. The mourning
doves coo and twinkle the only song I could ever reliably play
on the piano. The light is crispy and hot. The light is a promise
made real on a bag of pizza rolls. I approach joy. I am warming
up to pleasure. I was just learning to pronounce the word
humanitarian. A tree spills over the sidewalk and I want to
know into what big cat's mouth were you born. Into what
fierceness were you born. Because, girl—you are legendary.
You are mythology. You are the stories I tell my babies
late at night to trick them into believing in a higher power.
In these holy moments, my dog lays into my hair, lays alms
into my hair. I don't get I's that aren't me, but that's really
a personal problem, and one I'll work on in the creeping blue
of this evenings' nightfall. And even though I usually prefer
to express myself through onomatopoeia, gadong-a-dong-dong
will never capture waking up with your little hand in mine.