you're in Hawaii
so I drove to your house
clicked off the headlights
rolled down the windows
and bathed in the dry oak and grass
winds that normally surround you
which made me think of Langston Hughes
and Zora Neale Hurston, how for decades
they missed each other, each too proud
or lost to find themselves back
to the other's laughter and company
all that longing over language used
and I wonder if your life is so full
that one less relationship is relief
or if this same ragged cloth
beating my face and chest
wind-whips through the vacuum I've left
Thank you to the editors of Apollo’s Lyre for first publishing this poem.
you would be my loon
calling long past light,
my mourning dove, my
sweetest finch flashing
sun from black as night.
If my bird you were I'd
feed you nectar from my
palm and plant thick trees
for you to rest and nest until
I could transform my arms
and hands to feathered limbs—
our hearts remade as song.
Thank you to the editors of The Tishman Review for first publishing this poem.