My heart is tangerine leaves and calligraphy,
whole cloves and a pistachio nut,
incunabula and skeins of lace.
I wanted to write a poem for a woman, and a wife
I used to be
that would make you long to rub the fabric of my petticoats
between two fingers,
break a harp’s string strung with little yellow birds,
fold paper with bone and make a crease.
In my muslin rucksack I carry:
wrist ribbon, skirts, leather boots, cinnamon.
Tools for binding books.
I carry names with immoderate love
like a house that stands the test of time. My house
has marriage trees out front, spiny forest trees out front
where violets grow.
My heart is May Day, an illustration with a dainty hand
My poem has one eye open and its fingertips in a song
My house was an ocean and now it is a mountain range