Show me your teeth but not in a glass
(we’re youngish still; please, bite me on the under-
belly of my arm. I will make you mushy oatmeal in your eighties,
you can teach me sudoku, then I will remove
the parenthetical distance between us).
Today I will lick your incisors, make rare steak for them
before the kids arrive all grown up with babies.
The lawn will be reconstructed with badminton nets
and croquet that we admire and never use. Coffee,
beer, kombucha, detergent are the liquids of spring.
We are too refined, turning over in our white sheets
while across the world countries fold in half, empty
of their citizens. Can we live happily enough for them?
Will you be the lark in my heart singing lullabies to my
Russian storm cloud? We can’t always choose
our weather systems. Yours is California sunny skies, mine is
a month of April: cumulus, blue, wind, calm, downpour, hail, rainbows.
Your steadiness, my exclamation marks combine like a tongue
reaching for a lollypop—made for each other —
like the eagle making its nest, deep and sticky enough
for life to spring from cracking eggs.