You grabbed hold of my leg,
like a cloud, hovering above my head
and sinking me in heavy vapor when
I least expect it. Out of context and yet
a natural gesture. I felt like I belonged
somewhere. Not to you, but to a moment
that no one else owned. There is a place
that hangs in the air… and I don’t fear it.
It is mine, and not yours, because you were
somewhere else in a conversation,
for a moment…but the second
your fingers grazed on my calf—you were present.
And that moment, was your gift to me.
I breathe it in, like electric air is giving me life.
Perhaps I am perversely fascinated; bellowing
with expectations and implementations yet to be seen.
This is growing on me, like a blister ripe in the sun.
Its fierce originality.
Hands are always the hardest
thing to draw, capture, tell, picture. And yet,
I can see yours with vivid soundness.
This recalcitrance is not becoming because
I can’t pretend to pretend. I can’t forget
the way your southern accent hits my ear, like
a song—or the way your eyes are still illuminated
into the palms of my hands. I can feel their gaze.
I am lost in the light that penetrates from your
lips—are you dancing yet?
I am in orbit.
I am stars.
Come here, honey, what shall we dance to?
What will move us? What will change us?
What will inspire us? What will call us home?
Rain and thunder we must
sometimes carry in our belly.