With an Amy Lowell Line Running through My Head
Suppose we hadn’t met on the grass
at golden hour, sat on a blanket
with Moscato and flowers. Suppose
the flash-flood hadn’t ambushed us,
soaked sidewalk, dripping leaves.
How can I describe the tiny moons
glowing in your eyes? Last week,
a little before first light, we lay
in your bed—white sheets, marbled
comforter—when you said Every time
we have sex, I see colors, your fingertips
climbing the cliff of my shoulder.
That’s never happened
with anyone else. When I watch the sun
set over the ocean, all scent-of-salt,
rising tide, or walk along the bayou
at midday, T-shirt soaked
with sweat, I’m full of words,
know just how to describe
the stuttering contrail, sugared scent
of car exhaust, wild rosemary,
hydrangeas drying out on my dresser.
And, then, thumb tracing
my curls, your brown eyes scraped
against the want in me, your affection
for lilies, suspenders, saved receipts.
Suppose I had known how to say
You take the words from me,
ripple the sureness in me
the way the rain pricked
the puddled roads in last week’s storm.
Lips on my clavicle, morning light