Allow me the moment
when a bird trembles on my palm,
when I eat bread hot from the oven
or lick the honey of my love’s skin.
Let me not keep plums past ripeness,
knowing they must be tasted.
When we were new to each other,
he and I would stop the car, run into
the woods to lie down. Let me root
through the freezer for the ice cream.
We don’t know which moonrise
will be the last we see.
If you’re watching, if you made all this,
I guess you didn’t plan to keep it
to yourself. Probably you invented joy.
Why would you intend me to save it?
Make me as I was at six, the summer
before I learned about sin and penance—
feet bare in warm grass, the air delicious
on my skin, running to the backyard swing.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 2.
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