You are the salt on the rim
of my first margarita, the burn
and the bite that follows the sweet
but I won’t be the one you call
in a whiskey daze when no one else
will take the bait in their pretty
crimson mouths. I want to be
your laughter at three o’clock,
head back, teeth showing,
can hardly see for the tears
and the me in your eyes.
I want to be the cup with breakfast
that sets your hands to shaking.
I am one of those girls who was
first to arrive at school dances
and last to leave, learned I look great
in mama-warned-you red.
Felt like a poppy flower,
get tilted on this nectar.
I make you mine in the glow
of a daydream, two happy
little hipsters causing mischief
at record stores, lining up
the first letter of each sleeve to read
“my love, the unriddleable.”
Every morning the ceiling
of my room is rose-tinted
and I throw an arm over my face
to save me from the dazzle, while you
bury the sun in your open mouth.
I stay in bed, refuse to quit dreaming;
in this time before waking
you are always how I want you,
rearranging records at a record store,
writing my name when no one
is looking, tenderly, on pricing signs –
buy one get one 3 Camerons off —
lips clamped shut over the light
between your teeth.
I did kind of a stream of consciousness for this one. Didn’t realize until the end that the poem had taken a complete turn in mood and message halfway through. Call it a two-for-one in honor of the last day of NaPoWriMo.