The Best Part

the best part, you sonofabitch,

is looking for the exact word

to use like a ear bud

or sharp salad fork --

the exact word that dangerously, delicately

and exactly gets to the tiny shrimp, the hidden olive

the waxy crumbs of feeling

that fighting you and loving you

shake loose from heart and ear.

 

The exact word is a powerful word

and we scratch it into the ceiling

with diamond eyes hardened by waiting

and forgotten contact lenses; 

Mine is "when?"

Yours: "how long?"

 

Exact words aren’t Comforting words;

Those we use for pillows at night;

minebeautifuluswe

are dams of warmth and memory that

keep us from drowning

in waiting and the silence of

craning ears, for our sounds:

my footstep, your key in the door.

 

Truth, my man.

This looking for words like rafts

to row over the ocean of reasons-why-its-difficult

tells me that no matter what,

we shall float, two coconuts landing at the same shore

(Cocos nucifera: high tolerance of salinty, preferring high humidity)

become two trees curving with words like birds walking squawking

in our oiled hair-- timesunlightwalkredwinemashed potato

quietsex LOUDlovebabiesmineyoursourshappy--

two trees living, eyes closed smiling, wow and always on our lips.

 

Winter Conversation

She laughed and said I should be happy:
Here was a full moon and snow to call my own,
like discounts at Subway and beating rush hour.

I replied I missed sending him songs
on Gmail, that silence is cold fog
that even seagulls huddle together in.

She said I couldn't scare her, that fog
can be beautiful for things like magic frogs
and crickets singing to find their way home.

She said the trees would shine like
Swarovski tonight, that the moon would
make the white, whiter.

Baked red sands where she lived
turned the sound of my winter
into the yearning of her heart.

The full moon cannot find my heart,
hidden under this heavy coat
the snow has draped over my shoulders.