The First Time I Made Love Began Like This
The very edge of dawn
is pinned by the rain, under ledges
and in doorways where the city stays dry
a pigeon’s red eye cages the song of
finches and doves. I whisper
in the pre-morning world to you but
not with words—by the age of two I could
talk but only in sounds, language
came like a pile of bricks, one word
on top of another,
slowly making sense—
At night
I’m anxious for the morning, your shoulder
is the final mountain the sun coats
before I wake. My body goes deeper
than sleep; feathers beat against the cold
like no human sound. I’ve been
pulled from the night to unbind this morning; in your arms
what I’ve done has been tucked
into silence. I rise from bed to drink a glass
of water before brushing my teeth. Nothing
works out like I plan it: this day is over
when we rise; each morning the sun
is an eggshell that cracks with the sound
of an alarm. Your arms grow lighter
than the core of an apple and
I forget myself—my body is mostly
water, covering the city streets, unable to find
the pores of the earth.