A SIMPLE LOVE POEM IN THREE PARTS

i.

By the middle of June's
kitchen, the sun rose
as thick and yeasty
and sensuous as a mound
of fresh dough, dripping
golden-wet with honey
until our cotton clothes
clung to our brand new
bodies and we were
wrapped up in each other,
two pastires waiting
for the eating.

ii.

Of course,
what we wore then
made no difference;
the grass was as green
and as plush as green
velvet against our
dew-stained skins
and that was all
that mattered.

iii.

Had God taken
his garden shovel, his tin
bucket, his miner's cap,
and perhaps an old flashlight,
and gone searching
for riches that summer,
he would have found us
two veins of precious metal
intertwined on my front lawn
at six a.m., gleaming
beneath His gilt sunrise,
rich enough to support
a nation.

January 23, 1990
Background art created by Brandi Gabrielle Hubiak