you are the kind of affliction
slow to heal
and
uncommonly
beautiful

a sunset
all reds and orange
perpetually disappearing

(and almost always worth getting up to see
at 4 in the morning
when the rest of the world
is smartly sleeping)

bewitched
by your smile, of course
found first
in your eyes

‘you’re hiding a devil’
said I,
‘somewhere between your smile and your words’

no words now, nor smile

just a grin.

‘Come find it’, it said.

the problem with winter
isn’t a problem at all

cold invites behavior unbecoming
in summer days

if you think you are as fragile as glass
remember this:

I’m not afraid of your sharp edges.
in fact –
each time you break, I will place your pieces in my pocket

and when all that is left
is sand
I will gather you in my hand and gently send you across the world

until you are a desert, and I a cool wind
and we can sleep beneath the stars

no, she said.
peace is not stasis
or silence
it is not an absence of experience

it is an agreement the heart makes
to have, without greed.
to love, without bounds
to be, without fear

I find I go through life
with either
great patience
or great desperation

I sometimes wait.
content to watch the shadows
stretch and retreat
beneath my window

and sometimes
I am overwhelmed by a great need
to move.
or experience a hunger
like Cronus had for his children.

I do not see the sense of walking
when I can run towards the sun
or stand still
and let the world
come to me.

There is a pattern to your breath, a morse code in your pulse.

Hands on rounded hips, lips part, a slyph shared in a kiss.

I pass her to you, a safe harbor for our burgeoning language; we learn, creation through motion – a thigh turned, an arm raised.

There is a genesis, a light.

This is how I tell you that I left the groceries on the counter but hid the chocolates.

This is how I tell you that I watched you water the roses and thought, ‘What color do roses blush?’

This is how I tell you that I did not feed the cat and she will likely follow you like an overly attached child, bumping your leg. She will not perish – she is quite fat – but she will act as if death is no far thing.

This is how I tell you what I know best. That the language of our bodies is the language of our lives. And that words – beautiful, amazing words – are poor substitutes for a hungry cat or a blushing flower.

My hand, a birdcage.

Inside, a wren.

I let her craft all of my best poetry.

(you know what they say: wren writing, wren done, wren laughing at a pun)

That first part is not true.

My hand isn’t really a birdcage: it’s a cave. Cozy, dark, closely fit to wren feathered wings.

She likes it there.

But it means I can never open my hand.

Not once.

yellow-pearled eyes, curled like a dark dandelion puff.
she sleeps
all the time
except when chasing her stuffed monkey
dropping it in my study
(she wouldn’t dare scare up a rat).

wants a place of warmth to rest (blanket, lap, expensive cashmere coat, my face)

hardly worth the trouble

except…

she always purrs when I touch her
doesn’t mind my cloves
sits quietly when I write
naps to the sound of rain with me
hardly ever makes a fuss

silly thing.

And the thunder comes. On its heels, an exhale that asks the next breath to wait. Because that pause is where the world submits.