“They don’t know/ we are becoming powerful./ Every time we kiss/ we confirm the new world coming.” -Essex Hemphill, ‘American Wedding’
You left the poinsettia I (stole) got
for you in the Rotunda, or maybe
the breezeway,
like we leave straw wrappers coiled on the counter.
Seasonably gray clouds foreshadow
our thick dots on window panes.
We are heavy drops
rolled. Puddles comfort
cracks in these cobblestone paths
as we walk further away from
those red silk petals in shadows
clumped like sunken hearts.
As we pass through a green door
friends greets us, and you say “eyes
are the windows on the house.”
But in the house,
on the house you don’t see through
greens housing my worry
as tea evaporates you into rain.
Now eyes are made for recanting chemical
trails, rainbows that run from street
lamps and headlights.
What you don’t know is
ears are walls,
they carefully distinguish heart-felt apologies
from whispers in the spouts of a fountain.
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