the way in which i want you is not
quiet. it is constant tug at the hem
of my skirt,
the begging child gobbling a litany with
hungry little teeth and spewing thickly
over every please-please-please.
the words are littering the floor and i
sigh as i sweep the, up into the dustbin
to empty with a thump outside my
window.
it is a nervous little owl, anxious hoots
biting its beak and eyes
the size of egypt swallowing every piece
of you they can find;
lustful eyes, pale like the moon in its
overbearing white-moth slumber, worn
in the shape of
oversized glasses with a horned rim.
it is the trumpeter swan's call, the
winter-ivory paint thrown over its
feathers.
it is obstructive in its noise,
it is the threaded water enveloping every
bone's curvature in my body,
it is my fingers on your arm, asking you
to please call me bluebird.
it is the sketchpad in which i draw,
the old, dust-smelling book so rich in
every beautiful thing under the sun
between whose pages i press auburn
leaves;
the sky, the one whose mood is
mercurial and quicksilver;
the dirt, the one whose corporeal skin
sheds over my own;
the mouth, the one i'd like you to kiss.
the way in which i want you is not quiet—
it only makes me wish my silences left
unsaid would
write you the stories they cradle to their
chests.
