you are the strangest kind of wonderful
wonderful like i never learned to sculpt my mouth and mind around as a child;
wonderful in the manner of a foreign country,an east african veldt dotted with baobabs;
wonderful like the smallest bones in your fingers, the honeycomb stones called 'knuckles';
yesterday marked our inaugural kisses.
yesterday i laid my head down and listened to the slowbeat of your most favoritest muscle.
yesterday i held your hand in mine
and felt as nervous as a schoolgirl
and as calm as a heart surgeon
and i looked upon your face filled up with the feeling i know better than anyone i know, practically
and now, when my fingernails strive, seek, and find
the scabs of old pimples in the valleys between and beneath my breasts
and the ugly old razorblade scars
making roadways and paths
along the sides of my thighs
that olive, bearded face
before my mind's
i dreamed last night of chopping vegetables with amun.
we sat in a kitchen i must have found once in a movie.
somehow his haloed head – beautiful, sculpted, and so
a cute creole crown
with golden plastic christmas wreaths
winding funny circles around your hair.
i just smiled.
called you, "amun, my dear," and "let's throw out the celery
it tastes like nothing anyway–"
and i, a student of psychology, believe that dreams are just meaningless nonsense, of course
but what is this reciprocal liking?
what is this infinite tenderness?
can i hold you, maybe, like bright red fujis in my eyes, or
six pounds eight ounces avoirdupois in young amniotic arms, or just
like you are.
just like you are,
bare-faced, a hundred and a half pounds, with your big blue heart and your big blue eyes.
i will wait for your answer
and hope beyond hope that it is yes.