Marigolds of Fire

He had a caribou's face. Once he let me

lick the sadness there. It tasted of salt

and moss-covered rocks. He grew the beard

of a mountain goat. He scaled the face

of a mountain. Lying beside him, I stared

into the face of faceless waters whose velvet

antlers cradled us. He wore a bison's

face. Sometimes he wallowed in the dust,

tossing his head from side to side,

wearing deep grooves into the braided

rug. Mornings, he refused to betray

his dreams. He had an antelope's face—I could

go on like this. I liked how he led me, almost

a shove, how he kissed me—mercy—how I

kissed him back: my back against the foyer

wall. Sometimes we called to each other

like birds. It wasn't ritual—how can I

explain—he laced his fingers, made his knees

a ladder. I braced myself on his backward horns.

I climbed him then, into the tree.

In the end, we were delivered back

to the strange mud from which we crawled.

The bed gave us back, unastonished,

our aching, separate bodies.

This is skin, it told us. Skin, l wrote.

I would commit its meaning to memory.

A football player slaps the butt

of a passing girl. She turns

to face a silvered hand dangling

from each player's wrist: windless

chimes. Under their helmets,

the teammates wear the same blank face.

—Can I tell you I wanted them all?

In the beginning, there was blood or the threat

of blood. Formed from clay, we sought a fire

that could finish us. We sewed a garland

of marigolds. We ate good blossoms whole.

He takes his coffee with cream

and sugar; she takes it black.

She scans her wardrobe

for a dress. They respond to emails

and tidy their, desks. At 4 am,

the garbage truck jostles her awake. He sleeps best

on his side, on his back,

on his belly. He calls her lady. Though before she'd wince

at this term of endearment, she hears the word babe

slip out of her.

It slips out of her mouth . . . His eyes

are tired. She has bags under her eyes. She waters

the cactus in a slip. The sky

turns stormy. He forgets the umbrella. She wants

to storm out. He believes she'll leave. He forgets

to call. She calls him a name. She takes it

back . . . He takes it black, no

sugar. He's confused. He wants a baby. She

winces. They rub their eyes. It was a slip. A mistake.

He packs his bags. She irons the sky-blue

dress. She can't stand his silences. The way he slips

in and out of her. The phone was on silent.

The ringer was off. She removes the ring

from the tub . . . He sleeps

on the couch, on his side. The sky

is a bath of coffee grounds. Her face is full

of clouds. His eye waters. Somewhere

near a marsh there's a starling roosting.

I'm saying the middle

was filled with the end.

Source: Bluest Nude (Milkweed Editions, 2022)