My Love Is an Atlas

 

Whose eyes are two gray-blue wells

you could fall into,

cobalt Venetian glass,

a map that leads

to Parisian nights, chocolate crepes with brandy,

cocktails in cafes where hats must be taken off,

gondola rides, red heart shaped seats

under a star painted black Venetian sky,

dipping toes in the warm Mediterranean,

kayaking down rivers swallowed by the Pacific,

to riding bikes in Amsterdam, as smoke swirls

around beautiful women in windows.

Whose skin is Tuscany’s golden grass.

Whose lips are a butterfly’s wounded wing.

Whose laugh is margaritas, lime, dancing

past midnight, until sweat traces necks,

white lights in snow,

a child spun around

and around by her father,

the flush of morning sunrise,

lederhosens in Munich

where mugs of beer are bigger than your head.

Whose tongue is an ice cube

that slides down the curve of your back,

clink of domestic bottled beer,

scalding black coffee, and cinnamon.

Whose smile is a lost pink leaf.

Whose arms have baled hay and farmed potatoes

in Midwestern summer heat;

arms are home.

Whose fingers are tiny ballet dancers.

Whose cheekbones are a Native American carving.

Whose sex is Billie Holiday singing Funny Valentine.

Whose mind is mothers leaving little boys behind,

a harvest moon, a blue moon,

Coltrane when he first

discovered the sax,

Salvador Dali’s Mae West,

Picasso’s Blue Period, Van Gogh’s ear.

Whose thoughts are a field of wild flowers

placed in a glass vase.

Whose love is a thousand broken wings flying away.

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