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I’m prepared to tell you
everything
if you’d just ask
say, whom the poem was for
I’d gladly tell you
I wrote it for you
or if you had so much
as hinted
that you’d be interested
to know who
puts the sun
in my coffee these days
and the elixir of liberty
in my tequila
I wouldn’t have hesitated
from announcing
for all the world to hear
or read,
as the case may be
that it’s you
you
who spike my daytime walks
with fluttering leaf showers
from fire trees
and dilute my warm evenings
in a frosty broth of stars
and stir with
the blowing breezes
I’m breathing
the eighth and sixteenth notes
of a Miles Davis melody

See I’m prepared
to let you know
exactly how I feel
I’m prepared to baptize
this emotion
with the name
we seem to have outgrown
and I wouldn’t really care
who bore witness:
the men in my past
or the women who hope to be
in your future

I would have gladly
informed them
over this proverbial
microphone
how you crashed
into my loneliness
and smashed its headlights
and folded its fender
beyond recognition and
how the darkness
hovering about me
shaped like
poisoned apples
fell from the tree
at the sound
of your laughter

I’m your
twenty-first century
Renaissance woman
I don’t mind
making the first move
saying the first word
I just need a sign
that you’d be there
listening
when I say it
.

seashells

.

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