While admiring the bounty of tomatoes in Q and M’s garden,
we’re visited by crows. There are two, which makes it a murder.
Q says that’s sick, sick itself a word inverted like a dog
belly-up in the grass. A pack of hounds, a mob of kangaroos,
a tower of giraffes. Here we’re a constellation of queers,
sticky-fingered at the weekly potluck. Overhead, an astonishment
of sunlight. The oven sweetens with lemon tarts.
Y kneads my shoulder’s obstinate knot, knot also being
a measure of nautical speed. When we touch, we’re a wrist
of water bisecting. The table sings us a kindness of rice, quivers
of spiced zucchinis, a pickle of carrots, a blush of fresh berries.
J brought flowers again, bosoms of dogwood and hyacinth
for us all. What a wonder, what a word, almost wander,
as in through a luminous forest of dreams, almost window,
a sly peephole into forever, where we fatten astride our loves
like happy ears of corn. Dinner’s ready, M calls.
Off we go, a tenderness of beloveds,
our skirts of sorrow unfolding like flight, to feast
on a conspiracy of all our hopes.
Artwork by Herikita