—LET’S OPEN UP A RESTAURANT IN SANTA FE

 

Quotidian

 

I was picking

daisies on the bank

while you were

marking the headstones

of all our lost kids,

a smear of history

we’d never get back.

But then you bustled

and kissed me back

by the hedge where

the crows pecked,

our sorrows naked

and unbidden. You said,

“This is no one’s sad song,”

and for a moment, I believed you,

your tongue a slow corkscrew,

while I remembered everything—

how your skirt flipped,

how I dove in 

between your sweaty thighs,

thinking something as quotidian

as mouth-sex and true love

might just change it all.