No mystery or sin
in the minutes
behind
(where the garden was left untended)
– there’s a bit of freewheeling
in the comfort
of yesterday’s patches –
but in the refreshing sting
of Now,
only time seems to abandon
as we linger
overlong perhaps
but oh so syncopated
in each other’s arms.

Despite a silly ache
rooted in a girlish kaleidoscopic view,
I love with few borders
and am rich in open places.

I was gifted saffron
at a tender 22,
when familiar
shallots and peppers
became subpar
to the spice of discovery
of love and the city
on my tongue

-and I tasted
over and again-

until one day
alone and puzzled
in a tiny kitchen
holding a vial of saffron
(a gift from
a coworker
at my big new job
out of college),
I realized I was far from
being a grown up.

New love every week
was not filling
and cooking chicken
in wine just made me drunk
(in my sophistication,
I marinated myself).

Somehow not knowing
what to do with saffron
made me understand
I knew nothing.

so beautiful and soft,
day broke verdant and pink
not red like I thought
– I’ve got to get the hell out

before I frighten
cheerful morning birds
with my shout
of “fuck this!”
as I trip over my own feet
and twist sweet nothings
into odes
of vitriolic despair

one more attempt
at smoothing raging hair
and minimizing riotous hips
only ends
in sweaty frustrated
abandon
with no relief
from field or creek bed

so beautiful and soft
have not been my dreams of late
while something edges closer
to sanguine freedom

I’m forever their forget,
not being built
for remembrance.
Learning so long ago
ways of men
– fists leading to thrusts
always, always
to forget
in me for a little while
a world harder
than they.

I remember
too much,
letting my spirit
open softly
before withdrawing.