The first time I smelled you felt like deleting the weather
channel app & walking shirtless into the rain & laying down
in the tall grass until I was the tall grass. You were a wet plum
in my arms, pale purple & marigold, eyes sideways like lines
of morse. Ok fine, I cried but just a little. Your weightless existence
in a peacock feather filled with ink. I could have thrown you down
the football field of that 4th floor hallway. I could have tucked you
in my jacket & left, driven us to Rhode Island or Jeff City.
When we tied the knot it was 2 becoming 1 or something Jesus
approved, & now we’re 3 or 2 ½ or just a family of clouds
in the eyes of a duck at sunset. Your mother has been sleeping
all week today. That shows trust in us, hold onto it. You
will never be younger than the period on the end of this page.
When you open the Jurassic language of your eyes my world
will change. You’ll have a name, you’ll swallow it whole.