Press the thumb that seals the narrative
and take it so that the mothers and fathers can
break bread together,
meditate for their sons
small chattels.
where maidens can’t see
and children are not born.
Praise the intellect of the Peruvian whose walls have come down.
He does not notice you know him
that we carry him through the trains of our neighborhoods.
Now enter the brains
and touch the gold of winter that tarnishes the liquid
long after the geese have flown home,
far from the sincerity of the sun.
Wish nothing more for the poets in nightgowns
and carriages,
the years climbing out, to and from.
Yearn for them with your body
your barreled thighs
and envelopes.
She is god.
And you are god, so whisper what you want
then follow,
for thine is the small hip that breaks the water
and takes no splash
with it.
The peter, the sniper, and a thousand pickled peppers
in jars
for the taking.
Take them anyway
for the milk you forgot to buy yesterday
and don’t tell her
I called.
Set the tea in her porcelain cradle
but with it lace honey, the confectionary to follow.
We must follow
and when I hear your thousand dove legs
I will swallow
and know you have droned home.
