forks

 

I like
forks
because of how they can be situated
on top of the kitchen cabinet,
in the middle of the road, 
or where they embrace at the end of the river, 
before body meets body, becoming ocean.

I like
my nephew Sashka
who, being unborn,
is already beautiful–
with hair of dark honey,
hands like wild bees,
pink pomegranate cheeks
and eyes blue
like his father’s.

I like
my friend who reads in rainbows,
and my friend who can write the world into love
with itself;
my friend who sings in keys that unlock maybies,
my friend who has danced with me through every impossibility;
also, my friend who smiles like jasmine on a late-January morning:
this is not something just anyone can do.

And so it is because of 
you that I don’t want to live
a life unanswered;
or, rather, I want to live like water lives–
at then end of an exhalation,
condensing, changing, constantly 
converging carelessly toward
if I could 
fall upon your deserts
like stars out of summer
with the weight of rains over your empty reservoirs,
if I could 
fill your ponds myself
I would. I would
be contained in your blood like a beautiful river through your veins,
emerging into a fork that carries you like a wave over
we the nobodies of water
to Atlantis
and, becoming ocean, stops
before the crash
is.

Reminding us that we are still caught in motion always lost but finding
each other amongst ourselves impossibly within.