For Kate: 42 Days

Today is your birthday.

You've expanded consciousness where
my feet remain on sand.

But you are the moon now,
the tide pulling earth beneath my toes.

When my breath calls your breath,
the wind answers now.

With the gale at my back,
your hands rush me forward.

With your hands in my dreams,
I am living piece by piece.

Today is your birthday.
Today is.

Boy in the Office

Dear boy in the office who never wears shoes:
You asked me if there were any pears left
even though you saw my boss give me the last one.
I don’t even really like pears.
I offered it to you, hand outstretched, fruit like a kiss waiting to be snatched
but you said no, keep it.
I said,
I have pears at home.
You said,
But these pears are so fancy! When are we ever going to pears wrapped in Christmas paper again?
 

I couldn’t speak to that, so you smiled.
Reached out as if to take the ripe-to-bursting fruit
and closed my fingers over it.

Boy in the office who never wears shoes,
I will bring you a pear every day for the rest of our lives
if you smile at me like that just once more,
as if I am some secret no one has unraveled,
like you are a poem
before I know what poetry is,
and the only safety in this world is found in bare feet.