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.
Contagious as your hummingbird smile may be,
it is your hands...
hands that sculpt ki into a dragon's mouth
with arcs of mother-of-pearl framing
rainbow flames that smell of warm
milk and nutmeg, while your touch
draws the breath of muscle to bone,
Too few lines cross your hands,
large, almost too large,
they hold the sea.