Better Together

They say that interrupted sleep creates poor moods, but
it isn't true.  I tossed and turned all night; so did you.

We turned into each other, clasping hands,
legs wrapped, entwined.  We danced all night.

Our movements would pull each other out of slumber
just enough to elicit a kiss, to snuggle deeper, to whisper

"I love you."

Statistically, we slept horribly.
Romantically--beautifully.

I love our broken sleep.  Nothing makes me more whole.
Your constant presence at night makes our separation
by day bearable.  I have memories of last night to
keep me daydreaming happily, until we are together again.

It's so much better when we're together.

This Poem is Unkind.

My poetry is not kind.

Great poets take us on emotional
journeys.  We bring our baggage
and we can follow along.

Not me.

I leave my reader in the dark,
on a strange street.  Barefoot
and costumed with only a glow
stick for light. A Flimsy mask
pops your tender ears every
time you try to conceal your fear.

I lure my reader into a dim
house, exuding pale blue light
with strange plants.  I tell you
that there are Smurfs living in
those tiny trees.  And you believe me.

When you find your way
back to that unfamiliar street
kind strangers seek to distract you,
hide me from your line of vision.

Entice you with treats
you know are a trick.

Until you find the car,
crawl in the back
and ask why I like to
dance on my boyfriend's lap
in the front seat so much.

And I offer you five dollars
if you promise
not to tell mom.

Growth

I remember a white dress with red satin trim
dirt caked under my fingernails, between my toes.
I was three, and you were explaining
to me why I couldn't plant an apple tree
in Florida.  I couldn't understand how a place
good for growing so many other trees
couldn't grow apples.  I dropped the core,
seeds and all, into the earth, in defiance of you,
and of nature.  I dropped it in a cold corner
near the front of the house, and sat above that spot
all summer, sucking ixora nectar
as I waited.
No apples grew out of the earth
that fall, but that core took me into the ground,
showing me the secret to growing things unseen.