The countertops are smooth and red, and
grimy floorboards tug on the socks of the two swaying poets,
who sing a syrupy, mangled version of Earth Angel.
They dip and lean,
they falter and crest.
There is something especially secure
about the pineapple reliefs on the walls,
the Reese’s puff dust on their fingertips,
and the lousy grace of their waltz.
The sleepy one throws their head back in laughter,
gestures in sweeping elegance,
eyes wide and eyebrows raised,
toward the painted doors,
Shall we go to the forest?
The two stumble in the perfect placement
of the swooning hearts among grand conifers.
They call this Joy,
or Belonging
(to breathe deeply
and feel okay about it).
Chilled, crouching in a dripping alcove,
The sunny, blue sea is surely beautiful,
but these swampy, green inlets
hold me gentler,
like you needn’t be vibrant to be bold.
Fingers spread, pressed into gravelly sand,
fingers spread, pressed into shoulders,
reaching.
This is my root system.
The time to exist, is now.
PLUTO BLOOMING 