Name The Stars

You are not a Friday night.

This is what I want to blurt, sometimes, when I’m trying to explain

the way I’m feeling

in this season of the story

of you and I.

I won’t say it that way, because god,

my darling:

the electricity of you. The ever-present

pulse of fire.

This is what I mean about accuracy,

the way I’ve started twenty-four poems about you,

scrapped every last one, out of

anger at the word, the way

the feeling comes from me chewed and gasping, an orgasm,

a prayer. Metabolized and holy and violent,

the rigor of its need

a loop of scars crouched in my tired heart.

The question of deserve and the answer of irrelevant and yes and yes.

You are a Sunday morning,

just after the sunrise,

when I love to sleep but I love to look at you sleeping

more.

You are bare feet and fresh coffee, any mask of makeup

long gone,

me and you kissing slow and tender in the sun-drenched sheets,

saying mmm hi beautiful.

how were your dreams?

into each other’s mouths.

You are a true thing –

the truest.

The silky ripple of your body against mine,

our nakedness braided with sweat. The joy of you,

the earth, the sugar,

the reeling stars.

I will love every iteration of us,

my magic girl.

Even if those same stars come crashing down from their dance,

if the pleasure proves too frightening,

if I am afraid, or you –

I will shut my eyes, say:

thank you,

thank you.