love

surely it was you

I was not dreaming

you

in my room

in my bed

between my legs

it was your neck

your chin

your jaw line

I'm sobbing

for in brown, tufted chair

front corner of comfy coffee shop

my lover sits legs entwined

caressing mug of hot chai

nutmeg, cinnamon

drop through foam

spring break, mid-week afternoon

the continuous din of highpitched voices

echoes off cavernous metal roof and

every few minutes the cacphony is

When grandson scrapes his leg on a barbed wire fence,

love smells like blood and alcohol and two Sponge Bob

bandages used to gently cover the cut and calm his fears.

When my sisters and I return from our mother's funeral,

loves sounds like the twenty-four cannonballs you make

into the neighbor's backyard pool and the squeal of

our children's laughter.

Love feels like crossing a marathon finish line

for the first time. Sore, exhausted, exquistely happy,

and seeing in your face the reality of a piggy-back ride