My Love… is paper scissors bedrock, the potential of blank paper.
Same as knowing what it feels like to be a lodgepole pine and stand still in forests, while lovers carve hearts and initials
The trunk that forms a swollen burl after repeated shocks,
protective in the evidence of how obvious how innocent how intentional how sensitive
in the face of,
in light of… those arabesques
expressed through lucid but deep cuts
until I become your sweet cambium peels…
Reaching a perfect pitch requiring fire and heat to release…
upon a floor, blanketed in a cushion
of soft and sharp needles, patient
sugar water; the same nutrition and poultice that eases you
more useful than firewood
I am revolving doorways and bay windows with bench seats that secretly open into chests full of books, the eaves and the rafters and the beams, and fences to climb over and railroad ties;
you chewing on my most succulent insides
each disturbance of habitat
sending sudden and bursting new
self aware and
our roots; connected intertwined traveling
to and away, tethered and anchored,
from the rising and expanding
of witnessing everything
while Matisse acquires many paper cuts to float above his quilts.
He makes his choice of pink table cloths and lemons, goldfish swimming like tangerine crescents, caresses his favorite dove, never mentioning turnip country again,
or her flatness,
or her darkness,
or her wetness.
Instead he hands each intimate shape to Lydia and points, “There.”
She places his silhouettes, like she does her feet according to his dance steps,
a choreography set to the plunking piano keys as played
in bold colors.
Notes as crushing on
as charmed by
as composed and spontaneous as ranunculus
that speak easy underground same as do
victorian tea gardens.
He listens to how
his fingers fit like a glove into a pair of scissors no thanks and in part due to the industrial revolution
and dozes off,
into dreams, a future
where your radio jazz
accompanies a bouquet
that throws confetti from my lap
in order to stop what I am doing to set them in water.