The morning moon
lit
the water from the window
as you learned what life was like to share the tub.
He wasn’t big enough to do anything and I played
made up ukulele songs
while you asked me if there was enough
soap on his head to rinse.
The music and the words became the sound of the surf
and your laughs the sand at our feet. Everything
for what could emerge,
just a December day at the beach.

what is it about the water falling
from the clouds is mystical enough that
we’d prefer to call it something else. and in
calling it that something, give it power,
give it backbone, though in truth
there really isn’t one. and what is really
anyway the difference in it from my spit,
aside from whatever specks of shit and
enzymes make it better, or it worse?

then, following a week, a rainbow to keep
the hope alive, even though both she and
i know that the truth is sad, but secretly
much sadder; that refracted light cuts
deeper than the normal, garish white that
blankets everything in pauses. “you know…
sometimes its just a little late, but you can’t know
the exact time or date to the degree that
this is something someone would
or could have foreseen.”

oh but we can, and could, and will, when i’m
the cannon and the fodder in attempts to
be by definition an other one’s father.
lying…laying? i don’t know which is correct,
or what exactly constitutes a second chance,
but i know i don’t deserve them, and i’ve
had like seven. you’ve had to piece a parenthood
a little bit at times alone. you don’t deserve the
innocent considerate, and if i’m being honest,
fucking constant attempts to ask and Offer Kindness.
but the most observant with the biggest lens
can still confuse a symphony and smudge.

instead i’ll paint a fresco in the wax that melts
from my pores. these stippled hairs the wicks alight,
and each one signifying one of seven nights i’d let us
both be stabbed beyond the ides. what is it then
about the water falling from the sky that makes us
bow our heads in deference to a gust of air?
and who do you blame, when these elephants
aren’t white, and though you asked for them,
inferred no burden’s worth the bear?

The times we live in haven’t changed.
Pandemics come and go, and have before.
A difference comes when we flee into fear
And soaring high
We find ourselves afraid to ever land.

Our fright and flight are loving spouses.
They’ve taken silent vows to never part.
Protective of the children and the home
And future too.
They cower in the corners of our minds.

We cannot screw our courage to the place.
We lack the strength to pull the crossbow taut.
So even when we seem to mount a charge
And hold our ground.
The arrow limply flutters on its course.

A waltz and a glass of wine invite an encore.
-Johann Strauss

I. The Appearance

Soft. Green, sort of;
The hue of early sage,
Engulfing the garden
Out back.

I loved her and she loved me but,
Moon gliding through a sky,
Tattered and black, I know
It couldn’t last. The summer’s
So inviting, but never quite
As before. I stand still over
White dandelions, suffocating
The grass.

Legs ending quite abrupt, showing
Subtle strength.Free-falling across
Hardened silica and sand.
Rapid; with purpose.

It’s still ingrained, the kiss,
The space, crunched with sadness,
Just above your face. Smooth stones
Arranged and spread like wildfire across
The beach. I heard the mermaids singing,
Each to each, and on that night, certainly,
They sang for me.

II.The Nose

Remember, first, to breathe
In the stillness of the glass,
Accounting for a clean fragrance
Of fresh quince; then swirl.

Like the flowing spring dress of
A beautiful girl; flowers in her hair.
I see her everywhere, in everything.
It’s nothing new, and, dreaming, I can
See the aisles and isles. I can see for miles.

There should now be quite
A powerfully citrus note, not
Impolite, and not imposing.
Not posing; your nostrils
Greedily grasping every ounce.

She asks if I remember the first time,
We sat, stuffed, sipping Santa Margherita
Pinot Grigio, and I cannot recall. She does,
To which I inquire if she knows the moment
She loved me. Hesitation.
That night, stumbling, I sang to myself and
accompanied me to the station.

III.The Mouth

The swirl, if done correctly,
Should release the alcohol, and allow
For a truer flavor. Allow your tongue the
Satisfaction, purse your lips, slurp
And savor.

If only that and only this
Were traded out, then maybe when
We kiss, I wouldn’t feel so insecure.
Even with my clothes and yours, intermingled,
In piles on the floor…I cannot fully describe
My indecision.

Citrus with green apple hints,
(remember, quince!) Delectably,
A slightly lingering taste. Drink on,
Making sure there is no waste.

Everything was sparkling, all in all.
The little one still cried at night, and missed
You. I comforting, described the ways
You’ll make it up when you return,
And headed for the deck, to burn.

IV.The Finish

You should, at the base of your
Jowls, feel something quite
Sharp, and tight. Like the sweetest
Bite of lemon.

There I stood, mouth in
Hand and heart in throat.
So quickly time and distance
Had erased whatever fragments
Survived. Eyes red with height and
Having every rib cracked, I fell back
Onto your bed. I’m not sure, positively,
What you said. It’s been said I have selective
Hearing; most times it’s from my insides tearing.
Sometimes that gets loud.

Proud and to the point, with ease, the wine
Removes itself, and you’re left with a bitter taste;
What once was sweet and soft has been replaced
(And, seeing a lapse in comfort, then, invites you in
Again.)

It is with all the love, and caring I possess that I sit
Scratching with digits, screaming and mute,
To quite exactly express the agitation, depression,
And stress, that comes from enjoying
Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio, chilled,
Discreetly with a girl, distressed, dancing,
Singing, spinning, in a summer dress.
And asked of its worth, I would say no song quite
Matches that of the mermaid’s; crisp, sweet, soft
And specific.