You make me think of Joni Mitchell.
Of red wine and dancing on tiled floor with my hands up, like I’ve surrendered
to the rhythm of my body when it
is singing about you.
You make me think of sun dresses
and citrus and rose oil.
I peel fruit and it is exactly like saying
your name, so I don’t wash my hands
and I touch you until we both smell like tangerines, until we’re sticky with it.
On a Saturday that is not this one,
I will go for a walk while the sun yawns,
and everything will turn quiet.
It will be a small moment, I can promise you that, and it will take me to you.
Somewhere with a big kitchen
and brick walls.
You will be cutting an onion
with a butter knife and I will be
drinking Merlot out of a coffee cup
while you cook,
and Joni will be singing in that aching way she does, like she’s got all the time
in the world to fall apart.
Here, you will be the voice inside
my talk of forever.
Here, you will be the open window and the sway of my skirt in the wind.
Here, you will kiss my stained mouth
until it is its own sun
and every word is golden.