Constellations

my structure shifting and swaying at the slightest breeze

my leaves shiver with every pound of my heart revealing how badly

i want you to

when he finally makes it to the center of his field the sun threatens to set. the ground has grown purple in the shadow of the wheat that stands between the field and the sun, the sower and his barn. when the the sower returns home, the crows scattered, he takes off his hefty boots that galumph galumph and he rolls down his worn overalls from his knees to his ankles, takes off his hat and falls to his first favorite sensation, warm hands and soft breast, the only thing he loves more than being the sower.

the sower keeps his fields evenly cropped. he wakes with the morning sun to feed his chickens and eat their eggs, fried in a pan and set onto pumpernickel toast with unsalted butter slathered between the two. he takes his coffee beige, heavy cream but no sugar and ice because burnt sandpaper tongue is his least favorite sensation.

his third favorite sensation is the sun hitting parts of his cheeks his bucket hat doesn’t cover as the cool breeze bites at his long nose. his second favorite sensation is running his hands through the sack of seeds he scatters across the soil.

the sower’s field lies just beyond a field of wheat, 6 feet in height. he takes his time, spreading the seed of his crop to every corner of his land. he walks in spirals because lines bore him and he always loved the way sea shells curl into themselves.

I loved Smith Ave

where I was sent to  

drink ginger-ale, pretend to help in the garden,

make bird feeders, and leap through backyard sprinklers,

before we stained our hands with strawberries.

We’d sit in the basement,

snacking on cinnamon toast (that still doesn’t taste the same

unless Memere makes it),

next to the faulty exercise bike

and the shelves filled with decades

of National Geographic.

There we were enveloped by the smell of memories our parents had made,

wood crafts, wood stove,

and Pepere’s piano lessons.

This was the home he returned to

when things went awry

and mom’s house was no longer his.

This was where he told me he’d met someone.

But this was where childhood wonderment

and adventure

were never hindered by news of any sort.

This was where summers were spent

blissfully dragging the creaky wagon to the top of the hill

and feeling the wind against our cheeks

on the descent. This was where any day could be spent

drawing in the office, at our kids table,

creating masterpieces to hang on the fridge.

This house was a museum

and the yard was an outdoor exhibit

decorated with flowers,

a shed with a tool to fix anything,

bird feeders, the vegetable garden,

and the ancient tree and tire swing.

In the yard I escaped Passover matzah

to hunt for easter eggs with

small bills, change, jelly beans

and three special gifts for the cousins

(each meant for one in particular who always somehow

managed to find it).

And in the summer we caught fireflies

our toes tickled by the grass

our hands tickled by insect feet.

And in the winter

the hill was always ready

for our (quarter mile) trek up,

and (quarter mile) race down,

snow stinging our cheeks

until it was time to return our rosy runny noses

to the hot cocoa

and blankets around our toes

that waited for us inside.

And we would nap in Memere’s bed

or Pepere’s at the top of the stairs

though I never understood the separate bedrooms

until one sleepover when I heard the saw-like snore.

Before the bedrooms came our staircase launchpad

for paper and wooden airplanes,

And the crawl spaces

with infinite places

for hiding and for seeking.

And there was never a shortage of saltines and jelly

or neighbors to teach us how to knit.

Memories of the house smell

sweet, airy, and taste

like pull apart angel cake

and it still feels like small fingers

swimming through the yellow bowl

in search of the perfect button,

sounds like a screen door opening,

Somewhere I’ll find you

among the lilies,

between my toes,

under the bed where last night’s socks lie.

Perhaps you’ll find me

hidden in the dark,

seated on a branch,

wearing the tears from that good-bye.

I know we’ll find each other

because the darkness of night

couldn’t keep me from finding you

even if our stars burned out and

you are peppermint

fresh

clean

a sparkle that sits on tongues

and dances inside noses

you are linen

soft

safe

a shield from all that is no good

and the warmth of your hands puts campfires to shame

and yet

you are cool skin

after a long drive

at my place

on my bed

everything new and exciting

like the first time I ate cotton candy.

I didn’t know how it worked

what made it so airy and light

yet it melted on my tongue without hesitation.

I didn’t know how it worked

it stuck to my fingers

and got tangled within itself.

I don’t know how it works

but it does

and I want to cherish every bit.

you are attic

wise

prized

I don’t want to open it

I want to leave its sacred contents

but I open it

because inside could be something

worth seeing

worth sharing

or something worth keeping to myself

so I can revel in its magic without growing tired.

you are comfort

among other things

because I take comfort in knowing

when peppermint

linen

cool skin

and attic

combine

they amount to

mouths

open and panting,

lips wet,

and tongues touching tongues

tasting lust.

two

sets of eyes

bulging

and rolling back feeling the caress

of another human being.

hands

running over faces,

over skin, through hair,

under clothes,

underwear.

toes

curled tightly

going numb

with ecstasy.

thighs

oozing tension

being gripped by gentle

firm hands,

quivering. . .

pants

unbuttoned

and abandoned

laying crumpled on the floor

chests

pressed, rising

and falling together

united and untied

to have felt so much

and to think that feeling less

means there’s something amiss

it was once so strong and so passionate

now its so tired and so reserved

i almost am worried it is gone

but love does not rely