Colleen
This sandwich
is the most delicious thing
I’ve tasted in eons,
which reminds me
of how thankful I am for you.
Not just for your sandwich skills,
or your mastery of whipping up
alcohol, batter, eggs
and assorted meats
into a conglomeration of
American delicacies.
I am thankful, because you are you.
Tall pillar, hot tamale wispy willow nymph girl:
you are not my moon baby,
and I never needed you to be.
Because you are Greenbean,
with hair like corn silk,
wild renaissance beauty,
Leonardo’s queen.
You want constellations
inked into your skin roots;
you forget the galaxies
between your shoulder blades,
seeping into your lungs.
They are why you breathe
poetry that looks like star dust.
We, two wayside flowers,
have weathered winter’s fingers,
plucking petals.
You beam anyway.
