Providing

I keep a careful crop of loves,

sowing and tending with the religion

of a priest.

Onions and peppers for friends,

beans for students.

For family, the sturdy meat of potatoes

with their many eyes.

If not perfect, I am at least

a squashy, sentimental gardener,

always looking for spoiled fruit, or a pumpkin patch

to cry in.

And by now I am used to the

hunter-gatherer you,

your mazy forests with their

elusive game. You come to me,

dripping blood. I know: this is what providing

costs you.

In winter, your arms are full of twisted, brittle sticks.

See, this is a season, we say

huddling over flint and tinder.

I will keep us fed. You keep us warm.

Some days your soul is

Some days your soul is

a small glass box I want

to fit into. Other days

you’re the house with

blue walls I’ve been living in

for years.

I want to know why sometimes

we are as close as drops

of water, sometimes untouchable

as shadows, sometimes like the

same word, softly

spoken.

I want to know what music

our bodies are moving

to. I want to know the names

of your freckle constellations.

Sometimes I think that there is no

history, only love.