The first time my eyes rested on you
that merciful moment, they rested.
You were exactly as I imagined
and nothing I knew.
My inner oracle tweaked her divinity.
(Oh, she tweaked, alright…)
And thanks for rolling down the windows,
I thought I might faint
in the true nature of southern belle vapors
(then I remembered my well-natured feminism
and how discouraging an unconscious stranger
in the front seat of your car can be.
I achieved resistance.)
I spent the drive home swallowing firecrackers
but it felt so good and warm. Like vodka.
I laughed at your voice.
I couldn’t quit stealing glances at your hand when it found mine,
it felt like a new toy
made of an undiscovered color
that I, being the kid in love that I am,
would carry in my pocket everywhere I go
without even knowing it.
I couldn’t quit looking at your knees
and your lips,
and how your smile stretched them to the coasts,
and I wanted so badly to be a band around your wrist,
wrapped snug, it looked so good
even if all I ever did was tell you the time
I’d have a smile spreading from 3 to 9
for that wrist.
The landscape was so goddamn flat.
I did not feel flat.
I was buxom, looped, tangled, high, living.
I felt everything in Andy Warhol vision
You were surreal, Dali, Beckett surreal.
Someone should have painted us.
You welcomed me home
to a little room with a red wall
and I settled myself all around you
showing me the books that gave you eyes
the records that gave you ears until
my palms quit sweating, until
the night was loosed,
spouting galaxies into a big bang implosion,
into the universe inside your window,
into my new home
I’m full of moons in my reincarnation,
radioactive from the glow in your smile
(take my hair, let me turn green and frail,
but I want that smile)
the night secured me.
And that was our first day together.