I'm going to do one more.
I can't really decide which one.
There's a sonnet.
It's a love poem.
And then there is the last poem in my collection, which is
about suicide, so one or two.
One.
All right.
Thank you.
"Adore".
I've learned astonishment is always a form of birthing,
so I left a small plate out for my desires.
How brief this all was.
My lips against the scar on your pensive face,
a cut given when you were born, the slip of a doctor's knife,
and your father ready to fight.
I told you I believed in impossible things.
Then I couldn't unsee us.
I couldn't see myself, both adored and adorned.
I asked to be bewildered, and I was.
Every night I speak to the light that brushed your cheek,
but you are gone now so I think the trees.
You know I love them because they are trees.
Thank you very much.