Life is a nearly-new sofa with cat scratches
left on the curb. Well, some days.
I hardly know what I mean but
if it sounds good, must be true.
Do you remember when we found
that beautiful dresser a block form your house?
Of course you do. You carried the too-big body
and I drove the drawers and your boyfriend
talked to me from the back seat in tones I find
forgettable. No, I remember: He was afraid
of the mirror. You love mirrors.
I love mirrors and am afraid of them.
Is it just this town that throws away everything
for a few of us to retrieve treasures
from curbs and dumpsters, or
is it everyone?
Yaz, this is my third love poem to you,
and if none of them seem like love poems
that’s because the two of us prefer impossible
crushes, treat our hearts like printing presses
(me more than you) and you’re a wandering landmark.
Maybe my fourth, actually. The darkness
challenges the sunlight for shade
and makes us a breathing space.
Do you know, I’ve had maybe three
significant relationships with men. Or boys.
Whichever. Romantic, that is. I fuck or befriend
the rest, or turn them into poems. Well, it’s curious to me
because we’re both a little boy-crazy these days,
some days, and I wonder if that’s my why.
In the plaza we’ll hold hands. Did we both use to sing
oftener? We sometimes look normative, more
than I ever expected, me opening the door,
taking your hand, but everyone sees past it.
We’re the queerest fish of all the courts,
strolling past the statue of the Confederate Dead.
I’m leaning over the counter, beside the baked goods,
for a peck on the lips.
I cried over my fear of leaving you
when I though I was engaged. Long story.
You know it all, but I don’t know
jack from bull. Did the sun set on my siesta?
Have we been sleeping through potential meetings?
Sometimes I see the pictures of pastimes before
I hear your stories, and I imagine the sound of the wood falling
to your blade.
Did you hear me missing you
while nighttime rolled cigarettes out of fossils?
Can we find a phrase to use oftener
than “I miss you”? Does missing
taste like raspberries, ghosts,
or limes, better made into
margaritas? My mom and my best friend
like you, imagine that, so we’re feathered burglars but
I haven’t seen you in a week
and before that I saw my partner in poetic crime,
my friend and best critic, all
rolled into you but I’d like to
fall into you like bubble bath
and it’s been some streaks of
finger-painted oil masterworks of dusk
and midnight since last
I’ve seen my lover.