In Case You Were Wondering

It's like translucent squirts of lemon juice
slipping smoothly into a morning bowl
sliding over stiff yogurt peaks.
Or maybe more like steam rising
from pottery-
curling over a rounded, pattern adorned edge
a gracefully scented cup of coffee.
Mostly like waves crashing and taking from the shore
only to sway innocently back to a deeper topaz.
Occasionally like trooping up a dirty beige road;
curving lustrously through a forest dripping with green.
Sometimes it feels like waking up to a storm
when you snuggle your nose deeper
into the folds of comforter and sheets-
and the rain keeps tripping and falling on aluminum siding
and crowded lilac bushes.
That's what it's like.

April

Laughing like it's a different time to make us stronger
we've convinced ourselves that the light stays longer
or maybe it's finally begun to linger
(and i love the way you cling to my fingers)
and when I'm smiling under the plummeting sun
and our clothes feel cotton blown-almost like there's none
I feel like the moments we spend crinkling our eyes
are preserved in the fading warmth-our after laughing sighs
caught in a cage with the soaring breeze
like grass stains clinging determinedly to our knees
Moving inexorably into radically changing places
(and I love it when your body fills the spaces)
afternoons spent like we'll always be around town
when everyone knows we're scatter bound.

Sunday

Flash smash shhh
I flipped up the light switch
talking and moving foggily
from moving my way around the house
from rounded touches and feelings
to finding familiar words.

Crack pop rustle pop
the egg splashed onto the teflon
spreading and turning quickly
from transparent and slippery
from gooey and opaque
to solidly blank.

Woosh whip rustle
the newspaper unfolds
crumpling and waving slightly
from crisp and uncreased
from crinkling and stretching
to deeply wrinkled.

I wish I could tear apart my boxes and promises
especially for you, so promising.

I wish I could be who you want me to become,
firstly I think I should be who I am.

Ode to Tuna Steak

Inspired by Pablo Neruda's "Ode To My Socks"

My bicycle brought me
just a mile down the road
to the market, with a myriad of scents
a thousand pungent potpourris
resting on a sill.
I walked to the fish counter
and biked away quickly
with a small package of parchment
in my basket.
The glistening flesh of the tuna
darker than Caravaggio's shadows
Softer than a mother's breast
brighter than the sand in sun
my kitchen counter was honored in this way.
It was so beautiful resting in the parchment corners
my hands seemed unworthy, like a virgin sculptor,
sculptor unworthy of cold marble
or the clear smelling tuna.

Nevertheless, I resisted the desire
to wrap it away like the perfect gift
preserving the moment, as photographers
snap frame after frame
I resisted the striking urge to open the ice box
for the possibility of prospective evenings with the tuna.
Like farmers in the field
who pick their plumpest fruit
and sink their teeth into pulp with malfeasance
I stretched out my warm fingers and rubbed
with olive oil and spice, the perfect tuna.

The moral of my ode is this:
perfection is twice perfection
and what is delicious is doubly so
when it is a matter of tuna steak
glistening gently with a healthy glow.