I love you, dear lips like overripe watermelons blossoming
their crimson bellies. I love when you wear that window
of black and lace. I love you like hunting trophies
or collections of 70’s porn under the mattresses
of all my boyhood homes. I love you like a quickie
in the dressing room of Macy’s, or small, golden
whispers between girlfriends in verdant city parks.
Or your bombshell coif—all shellac and gloss.
Or your tiny waist, disappearing like the northern edge
of the Flatiron, or a polar glacier, or a dwarf star.
I love you and your sea otter sway—your skin,
your makeup, your laugh, your heels, your sex.
I love not knowing where you go in daytime.
Who zips you out of your dress, who writes
their name on your back’s kitten skin, their fingers
opening the mouth of every vowel as they write
you fan letters, hymns, summons, and requests.
I love you tonight in the glamour of unrequited
affections, catcalls and applause, in the colored gels
that make every face ripen like cold, green fruit.