Not a Promise
This is not a promise,
just a flaky muse:
What if I gave you peaches, cut to the pit just
at the moment of sugaring? What if
you shivered when the juice tracked your chin,
amused to be sticky again?
What if a moment were enough?
I can’t say, but what if I showed up with
wildflowers and you’d just been pondering that
empty corner in your kitchen? Would they be
just perfect or are you allergic
to wildflowers
or gifts that show up, riding a beaming smile as if
you’d asked the universe a question? Be careful of
requests; Choose your words like a lawyer.
The universe might just make you divorce that
habit you wear…out.
Funny how the badminton shuttle rights itself with
each hit. Funny, the sight of you, chattering and
restringing my racket…again, endless patience and
contentment at twenty paces. My limitless listening.
My serve…
What if the night sounds of my house became
familiar and you slept eight hours, your hand, food on
the plate of mine, feeding us rest?
You could plant tomatoes and I could weed when
I remember. Wineberries, catnip, tearthumb. Just
a notion. Could be shiny.
I have to laugh that we can’t seem to get more than
five volies of that shuttle off before I miss. I’m willing
to practice but the weight of your gaze on my hair
is distracting. What if I got the rhythm?
Your serve…
—-Wren Tuatha
