That Thing I Do

I have this thing that I do, where I write for too long,
and in far too many metaphors, as if the plain jane
explaining of the daily graces I find dropped down
into my lap like manna formed from the bones of the
steeple our fingers make when our hands come together
as a church choir, throats full of holy fire,
is simply too subtle for the way these small
moments lived out in small rooms move me,
crack me open, jaws of life in the starfish shape
of your palm pressing peace into the small of my back.

And I guess I could put the words down on paper
the way they fall free from my mouth, but it’s hard to
articulate when I’m navigating the empty space
between my teeth where your skin lived five minutes ago,
and maybe I could speak around its absence, but
anything I said out loud would only crowd out how the
smell of you gets tangled up in my hair, a forest by the sea,
the air like a ring of salt around your lips, your legs like pines,
an offering plate held steady on hip bones that straddle a
stretch of sky the color of an old lover’s eyes.

I’m sure if I sat down, and unpacked the moment, I could
put together a string of one syllable words that would reach
around the world, but there’s poetry in the places you touch,
multiple adjectives unfurling underneath you,
opening up, a thesaurus as thick as the place where your thigh
covers mine, a hushed communion under wrinkled sheets and
light the color of days old snow, ink smeared inside the galaxy of
your thumbprint, laid to rest in the sweet spot behind the
curve of my ear, a singing glass of stolen time, the notes hitting
the bottom of my spine, a song of surrendering nerves.