Midnight blurred my welcome-home photo of the bosomy blooms —
nippled at the stem, freckled at the throat, and tongued with stamens.
Your midnight wanderings shade to my too-bright morning, the chill
breeze over my face, the dog curled on my belly. And so day
opens like the window, to Facebook, Twitter, your good wishes,
your new poem. A deck of cards was in one of the packages
which arrived during my travels — the sweet Jane Austen, sealed with
the Ace of Spades, and epigraphed with “You pierce my soul. I am
half agony, half hope … I have loved none but you.” Stupid quote.
It’s from Persuasion, her last novel, but so childish. We can
argue about it later. Or agree. Or whatever. Now
is now. It’s time. It’s time, and it’s been time, and it continues
to be time. Time stretches out opportunity like waking.
Yesterday, the loud-mouthed butch in the back of the bus
hollered, “I just want to get a hotel!” and then, “I think I’m
having second thoughts.” Her non-idea, so random, so sharp
and pointedly personal … well. The bus took notice. Today,
I swap footies with neon sunglasses for knee-highs of bold
red-faced spider-monkeys with bananas, and run for the bus.
Which I miss, of course. I wait with red poppies, blue irises,
thin-fingered pink honeysuckles. I wait with the words in which
you take delight. The words that melt in my mouth buzz against lips;
sputter, spark, and melt against the tongue — vapor, vellum, velvet,
vivid, voluptuous, vulva. The alphabet makes me swoon.