The crow’s feet. Pointing
in directions I have taken. All wrong.
The spring fling melted
into a slow summer sizzle—
a Liminal romance &
She begins to offer me ways to live:
Creams and vapors,
A softer place to lay.
And as we, cradled like crabs,
entwined limbs clutching
the cardiovascular echo of the other,
I ask her if she might be kept.
And rocking, breast against breast
she confesses her fear of cages.
I reflect the thoughts in the adjacent room;
She is a better hostess than I,
admiring reflections of the self in the tall grasses,
the dandelions gone to seed,
insects, a surrounding conundrum of beauty,
Cicada static: variations on a theme &
Like a child’s fascination with what is not within the box—
outside, hot to the touch,
inside cool and reposed.
We pour ourselves into ill-fitting molds
until cracks appear.
Count the futile attempts before the clay holds
true to its design and we discover intent.
Pretense or predisposed,
we are prepositional and packaged like ladle and broth:
Our cupped hands and waiting lips reaching
for the reciprocated gifting that is.