Sometimes, right before drifting off,
when your leg's planted against my cast-iron limb,
your arm's length cradling the fear of deprivation
I can't shake without at least a teacup's worth of
bourbon or whiskey or patient caresses,
I forget the ground and find myself
circling the rings of Saturn, using the friction from
your fingertips making patterns to flip to a moon,
Titan, where the dirt feels like cotton on my skin
when I try to make angels out of the dust.
You once told me that you weren't quite
sure this isn't all pretend, an alternate reality
conquest that everyone's in on but you,
and trust me I've thought that, too, but,
baby, I'm sure now this is blissful actuality.
I don't know if you're up for perpetual
ventures in dry humor and messy tabletops,
but I'm willing to build some shelves for
my multitude of flowered vases, and, like you
said about this game, at least we're winning.
I'll crochet us some covers with crazy colors,
to blanket the trouble we'll sustain in
burnt suppers and getting the hammer to
do its job when it doesn't want to mar the
beauty of a freshly painted wall.
You can entertain any aches; I'm well-versed
in phoenix tears and have a safe ear for wilting
daisy petals that you should throw in the soup.
It's tomatoes and old *** and some carrots
(for the eyes), a meal to eighty-six tremors.
Our exploits are easy because your toes
are catapults to another galaxy at least,
and your shoulders cradle my war stories
so well, like a warm rug after cold tile,
like a spot on Earth that's never been stood on.
You've fanned my simmering flame with your
kisses like raindrops, light and heavy, and I
can't be sure if I'm still masquerading or holding
a candle with a spotlight's incandescence,
but I've stopped spending pennies on worries
and instead free my palms to keep my hands
in your hair. I see your smile at the train
station and I'm willing to bet my stash on
our chances at breathing freely (why?) mostly
because of your leg, still firm against mine.