Please, when you come, bring me news of the world –
not foreign wars or epic storms or the Queen's upcoming
Jubilee, but things that only you can tell – like this morning
smelled like mulch and mud; the slate was wet, and you thought of me.

I can't write about miles of sown fields
or the absence of rain
or silver minnows in a cold creek

without also imagining
how the sky would look from underneath you.

I can't write about sugaring season
or my grandmother's barn on a foggy morning
or the thrum of an August day

without also imagining
kissing each one of your berry-stained fingers.

I didn't know your name back then.
I practiced love with other men.
I burned my lips on words like yes.
I didn't know your name back then.

I practiced love with other men—
a reckless, shipwrecked malcontent;
a willing, waiting queen undressed,

I burned my lips on words like yes.
I warmly, weakly acquiesced
and woke to wonder if I'd dreamt.

I didn't know your name back then.
I studied sin with other men
and broke my heart on words like when.

A last incinerating kiss, then
the exponential loss of  bliss–
take my heart and divide by
you; leave me with poems and
warm anecdotes that I'll store
away like Marie Curie's notes:
still hot, still toxic, still true.

All the poems I wrote for you
were fond hyperbole; your hands
were not the saving kind and you
tasted nothing like the sea.

Next time I wake from sleep
for keeps – from deepest, darkest
slumber – I may come back a little
bird to visit in the summer; my
quetzal pomp, green feathered
grace, singing through my hunger –
when I am gone, I may come back
your pretty bird, a wonder.

I've had to struggle
for every good thing.
You came easy.

At least my cherry tree
will blossom soon.

On hungry days, I hail
the hunt, squint my
eyes and spin my guns.
Your heart runs by.
I count to one.