Your kite
is a rainbow.

You
let it kiss the sun -

the glow is unfamiliar,
unlike your face,

even though we have only been
in the den

for five days.
If I could cry, I would.

Our backyard is teeming
with cardinals and spring,

but I can’t think of them.
I only see you.

Your chest
is an Indian beat

belonging to a drummer. I think it's for me.
I count it out. One, two, one, two.

The borders beyond the garden are looming;
they creep and crawl forward

like the disease we fight, pressing in.
Your warmth sinks in me, but I am still cold.

I constantly check foreheads,
pressing lips against suspicious skin,

and for a day or two I forget
that the world goes round

and that we are small, petals of daffodils.
You hold my hand, you rouse me as a child from slumber:

“Open your tongue. Look up.” And I look,
and I see those colors you’re flying;

I see a diamond and a sign
and God’s eye. Goodness now notices

my cough and bleed. My eyes are no longer mute;
my song comes from the windows,

it tumbles down the brick and vines
to meet the waterfall on my cheeks.

Rainbows can be tasted;
they can be felt on the lips much better

than fevers.

.

I fall to the grass and breathe
as a newborn: for the first time.