Asparagoose
Let’s syncopate the space
between my head and your chest.
Curved cartilage makes for a pliable placeholder.
Say something nebulous,
a mispronounced “asparagus”,
into our flesh apostrophe.
I don’t contract
regularly.
I eat carets for breakfast.
I have enough in my breadbox
to feed a flotilla of script.
I didn’t want touch so much
until the carpet in your basement
left honeycomb imprints
in susceptible skin.
Manley was right
about dappled things.
Under the string switches hanging
from bare lightbulbs,
a wood beam ceiling and a zodiac
duvet (the maiden at my knee,
lion at your shoulder),
I lost the phrases I was saving for later.
I only loved you more
when you said,
“I want to kiss each one of your eyelashes.
That isn’t poetry.
I want to do it”.
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Emily, your work is absolutely outstanding! Never stop writing!