Your Hands Were Architects
On cold mornings
my mind goes white
no amount of tucking in sheets
or repeating your name like ropes of licorice
can turn me pink.
I close my eyes—
recalling satin slippers
the color blue and the backseat of taxicabs.
I felt I was being pulled away
the torn-apart half-moons
of an orange, translucent and scandalous
wrapped in thin skin, white chalkiness
rubbed off on fingertips.
These days nothing is as beautiful as you,
stretching yourself into a bat, leaning