i.

the bones of your face
are long and defined.
i parse you
into geometry:
the firm lean lines of your
nose, your jaw
as a child's drawing,
as a cubist's dream.

ii.

you linger in my mind.
the way your hands
peel apart a question
as an artichoke falls open
barbed layer by layer until
you bare its redolent heart
which is also the answer.
Yes.

iii.

lulling, your words are calm
drops falling into the ocean
of our mutual silence. i feel
only contentment, only
contentment.

I am trying to write poetry about flowers,
The messy, spillingover kind, rioting, too
Bright, so alive something in me cracks like  sidewalks
When tree roots push up the concrete like When molars
Erupt from sore gums that time she said when I grew
Too big for carrying, I had to learn how to talk
like an adult. Whatever. Money. Car. ***. Pill.
Capitalism. Work. Responsibility.

But something about tangly sunbright flowers still
makes my heart say whee.

"You've loved sometimes so beautifully,"
someone wrote to me today.
Me, loving beautifully?
I don't know if I should laugh or cry;
If I should exult because (sometimes)
the flickering flame of my heart
becomes so incandescent with love
that
  I
     blaze (?)
Or if I should cry
because
(so often)
I feel more like shadow than fire.

A list:

He wears blue.
I love blue.

His clothes fit.
Mine don't.

He isn't ashamed to wear his spectacles.
I am. I am. I see myself too clearly with them.

He only eats vegetables because he has been convinced for four years.
I have never ever been absolutely convinced of anything for longer than a day.

Maybe except gravity.

Me, pulled like a planet into his orbit.
A minor planet,
But no.

I am not a romantic.
My fingers stutter on the keyboard.

He's smart.
I am, but differently-abled.

His quiet is cool.
My quiet is shy and sweet and all the things girls are supposed to be until we find out that we don't have to shave our legs because ***** patriarchy.

He had a vegan mint rolled oat brownie for lunch but they are not cake because they're flourless.
I ordered the 'beef salad' on the menu because I thought it was funny.

And all these reasons that we wouldn't fit, and still a thrill of excitement. And the girls around us that make us laugh and the girls who are not me who make him laugh. And the shame at having tried too hard and acting too cute and being too, just being too...

Bless me, for I have sinned.
I saw the fantasy before the person.

When I left my father's house,
he looked at me with sad eyes.
I wondered why. Here I was off
to marry the marquis of my dreams
and there he was in the shadows
of a crumbling house
turning into a dream instead.
I wanted to tell him
that I was his daughter
through and true
and he would be proud yet.
But we didn't have time
not for silence nor for words.
So I left my father dusty and alone
and silent and never looked back.

When I returned to my father's house,
he looked at me with love in his eyes.
I wondered why. Here I was because
the marquis of my dreams had become
blood, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bones,
living in an empty house of gold.
The reality of it hurt like a raw wound.
I had to leave.
I wanted to tell my father
that I was his daughter still
but maybe not so true nor so brave
and not so much a cause for pride.
So I told him so in silences and in
still, small words.
My father listened, dusty and alone,
and all he said was
"I'm glad you're back."

Spring is violently upon us.
The earth sings like a Valkyrie
heralding the dawn.

The anxious wait is over,
The crocuses are alive:
Golden heads thrusting
through dark loamy soil.

Spring is violently upon us
Dearest. We strain and waltz
In the dark, a gathering symphony
Explodes into the tumultuous
beating of drumming hearts.

Punch-drunk, the twits circle
Their nests, the weight of snowy
Linen on our chests, and sunshine.