My crackers are delicate
and I have no reputation.
The same dance steps haunt
all my grey Saturdays
and I worry I’ll only be remembered
for cheese and moss.

I try to unhunch my shoulders
so as not to be his echo
but walking is difficult
with bosoms like televisions.

Watch the wonder wheel
with its terrible grace.

We keep gathering
in circles, facing dishes with spoons
and we shuffle our potatoes
back and forth as we sort
memories of long days with short words.

Our work is never finished.
We are light tinged with soil.

Grasping a stone
built for eating makes the grim
dinner by the window
seem a divine intervention.

We taste of underdeveloped joy.

Breaking rough cold waves
– no foam –
thankful for shoulders that swivel
and hips that open wide
to take in the world.

Winter birds don’t whisper over ice.
Everything startles during the hush.

Immersed in his voice
– sharp laugh –
looking at flight askew
but still wishing for a few feathers
to take us a little higher.

We swam in tall grasses,
frolicking freely inside a green bubble
that only grew a warmer amber with time.
So quiet, our cries of the joy of release
were answered by just a few curious crows.
It’s winter now for both of us,
arms beating at a battering wind
as if we could ever make a difference.
I’m extraordinarily content
and the only thing I can figure
is our wanting warms the air around us
and something inside can’t help
but be touched
and carry us through darkness
to where it stays amber and green.