That One Time I Stayed Up All Night Making Excuses to Talk to Danger

Maybe it was my old friend Fascination

who first let me know that Danger

was right across the hall, or maybe

it was the unrealized absence of pollen, or,

was it the nearness, Danger, of your hair’s

blatant softness, just toweled.

Or, I wanted to stop thinking — and, I wanted to ask,

Do you think God understands

                                                   attraction? Surely, right?

Or, I wanted you to notice my anger,

which you might not characterize as dangerous, per se,

but rather, fickle, a synonym

for “mercurial.” Maybe that’s typical. Yup,

there is a liquid sharpness in me I wouldn’t unlid

except    ...    damn, Danger,

             there’s this certain way you draw out epiphany    ...    

You’re messy, Danger,

baby, meaning untidy, confusing, monumental,

great in size, and also, of or serving

as a monument, which leads me to reconsider

the dimensions of sandwiches, as well as apartheid,

the aphid, and the scarab beetle.

                                                   Danger, can you feel

me tremble?

But I am saying nothing, dear

                                                   Danger, you don’t already

know — you’re used to being pursued

with rage, unwanted advice, riddles. That’s not me,

respectfully — Joy is always waiting

to cyclone you with nothing more

than a matchbook,

a long gaze, a warm bowl.