Soon, Softer and Warm

by Marianna Gibson

The way sugar catches in the corner of your mouth, how you smile into the bite; it might as well be my fingers/head/heart between those teeth. Could you say that again? The part about a last frost eating us alive? Here is what I see: a crocus blooms for every new egg in the coop. Tomato seeds, so tiny in your hand, bring us to the stove, to your tongue on the wooden spoon, to your tongue on my tongue in the kitchen, in the garden, in the hay so messy. The sun will set. You’ll ask if I saved ripe figs from the Robins. Yes, of course––stay. I’ll watch your shadowed arms against the honey-lit wall, swaying, stretching, blurring past lovers and the sting of winter. Fruit will line the counter, neatly sliced and bleeding. Our bodies will fall right on top of one another. Little lights will swirl outside our window and we will open it right up to take them in our hands.