Longing

The last times I felt you,
I dipped entirely into scalding waters
To wash you off my skin.

And now, your familiar tongue and digits
Protrude from my throat and eye sockets.
I remember that you come from within.

It's been a full season since he mailed to me
The strings
And book
And money.
I haven't managed to enjoy or learn
A thing
from
The gift.
I find it funny.

It's never the thing
It's never the thing
It's NEVER the THING.

It's always everything else.

untitled

Dear Love, you come to find me
In forms no one ever taught me
To expect:

In the juice of blood oranges staining my cutting board;
Tucked into shared arms I make no attempt to own.
From my rooftop, you are the clouds and the glistening surface of the lake.

In appreciation of integrity, honesty, and intention, I find you in myself, Love.

You laugh boldly in my face from the bathroom mirror;
I hold you in a loose fist as I jump over fire at sunset on the Tuesday before the vernal equinox.
You wiggle in a blue bowl as I break egg yolks with a fork and whisk them into you.
You are my 17 or so strands of gray hair.

How many rediscoveries of you, Love, await me? How delightful, this imperfect life.