Kissing you feels like leaves. Fall is near. I’m not sure what gust sent you here, your mouth like something buttoned and unbuttoned with care. You hang over the field rolled flat as dough, straw soft, hungry for hay. Round noon the crows fly away. See them tunneling over the grass- bent belly dance in the sun glow. (You can’t coax back a crow.) Kissing you feels like a street-dance. Remember the day I carried you off your post and down a steep hill yawning green? I went swimming in the river while you dipped your hay feet, thinking all the thoughts that keep you up nights in the corn rows, black eyes bolted open.
My favorite nights were the ones I kissed your hands where they swung in the starched air. You were a maestro conducting the orchestra of everything. In the distance clouds and bullfrogs learned to spell their names. People clapped their hands in farmhouses and the crows flew home.
Sometimes i am achingly, mind-numbingly, finger-tinglingly, heart-stoppingly, gigglingly aware of how in love i am. i feel her breathing under my skin, on my tongue; she swims through my hair and down my arms and i get her blushes tangled up around my feet. i hear her singing in my sleep and laughing every time i wake up. she is not just touching my hand with her hand, my nose with her nose, hip to hip when we curl up like kittens, but she’s reaching inside all the twisted ivy i have growing through my heartstrings, and she’s plucking them oh-so carefully, tuning me, stitching together my wounds, making new pottery out of my broken pieces. she is a prehistoric gem, a great archeological find buried under an eternity of inadequacy; her beauty will sink more ships than Helen’s eyes could ever dream of.
i am awash, a waste; i am blessed and blasphemous against her lips
(even the sky cries so hard when you leave, even the sun forgets its place and stutters out an apology to this part of the earth for taking you from me)