I don’t want to learn any more. I already know how beautiful
your insides are. Rare and full of promise like
the beginning of snowfall or crying. The beginning of spiral.
First life, then art.
Then nouns. Entities. Three-dimensional objects.
How are you on arugula? Radish tops?
And then there was a curveball.
The beginning of mercy. Forgiveness. Regret. Fear. Panic.
First tears, then years. The decision: firm, hesitant, momentum.
Not for softness. But then, we seek softness. In crisis.
I have, at least, learned that.
And then there was organic certification. Because we’d gotten
so far away from natural that we had to proclaim
the authenticity of realness. I swear to you I haven’t added chemicals,
hate, hormones, hidden agendas.
I need a new softer rhythm for your hunger.
I need a way inside that cuts clean,
past the syncopation of all these tender gestures,
like drugs, that numb me.
I promise I’ll remember everything.
There will always be a thread of you –
against the deepening color of me. The faded wheat stalk
of your laugh against the throbbing sloppy magenta of my heart.
I’ll stick it in a little, just pierce the surface enough
for the wheat to stand up on its own,
waving in a mini breeze of emotion alongside
the thumping whale beat of my gorgeous heart.
We’ll go around together giggling. I’ll show you jokes I’ve started
and projects I’m in the “then” stages of,
adding to with circumstance. You’ll bristle and dry and
give shaded looks of beiged yellow and tanned gold.
I’ll eye you carefully to make sure the ends haven’t split.
If they have, I’ll get some Gorilla Glue and reinforce
your presence in my life. Because even just one thin thread of you
is more than enough to keep me.
The sea can’t eat me