Tinted pink, thinking about you by Rachel Weinberg
I watch you lie on your stomach with your legs stuck up
in the air, crossed at the ankles, bare feet tar black
from the asphalt. You’ve got your shirt on backwards
and a bumblebee behind your ear and you’re staring
at me with fistfuls of your cheeks in your hands reciting
spells you learned under your breath to grow your hair out long,
long enough to chop off and still have some to tousle.
And I’m watching you do it; growing and growing
and bathing in blood the way the Cotswold ducks did
in puddles leaking down from the marketplace—red
and runny like streaks of ketchup. Tomato-pasted
sherbet-bellied bills that said It’s you and me up against
the wall, baby—or in the pond or beneath the wooden bridge
that smelled like iron and caramel kettle corn. I hear you
talking on the phone to Philadelphia honeybee, and damnit
I feel lucky you’re mine. That you’re the (one I get to spend my time
with, you) pack of powdered donuts that went down with a thunk
when I shook the vending machine— I, the all too eager grabber
who nearly crushed them all in the yanking out process.
You put your terracotta corduroys in my laundry
and now I’m tinted pink, thinking of you, listening to you
tell the other eight nine ten hour away people over a half-buttered
English muffin that you are eight nine ten hours away, how sorry
you are you can’t make it and with this, you nudge me
and put your life in the backseat, the trunk, my coffee-ringed cupholder.
I bet those ducks became bloodthirsty, waddling across the cobblestone
with Kool-Aid stained tail feathers, a birdbath of bloodlust.
If there were geese, (which I bet there were) they would have looked
like pomegranates, like me and you, in and out of adoration under Mars.
I think Mars would like the look of that, too.