Molly Peterson

smooth doorknob face - and chest full of time bombs - spot of ultimate explosion far
but miraculously not - beyond my amateur reach - am i the shortbread - or the not shortbread
of the binary - you made in your sleep - strange strange cookie - what does efficiency
have to do with - your mouth like something - made to be plucked - if i could bake anything
into this melting feeling - it would be air - one sure handful - of yeast //
                               // this is the future - last saturday
couldn’t portend - last tuesday stuck pins in - last nightmare broke into - less like day than
matins - song - you sing in your waking - but sleeping you rupture - my only - i move toward your
meteor shower - of language - like big mouths for bits - of popcorn - that old party trick
my poor reflex - rejects - the saving grace of palms //
                              // i like you unwaxed - i like you illegible - can’t
see the bus - but hear it arriving - footsteps outside the door - heavy as fingers - children
climbing a trunk - slim leaves yellow - your dark tangling hair - piles of autumn colors
trembling - ready to burst - can you imagine - back against the grass - red and orange and red
and yellow butterflies - god did that - folded secrets - out of air - darling? your ears - close
enough to toss a new coin in - watch it go down
                              around - around - around - did you ever do that - at the zoo?

Most of the cups in the house are missing a piece.
Not about handles, about completion.
Water pooling in a stray’s footprint: bellybutton heat.
Follow my proof. Faith is the only way to praxis.
Need more hours in the day.
Need more stretch of twilight.
Need more oil for the stop-me-creaking.
Need to know where the fronds land at the end of a dandelion wish.
Yesterday I saw a pair of eyes larger than I’d ever seen.
Today I inherit a million blankets.
Hold me for as long as you are able: Until even those handholds go droop.
Until even our front door receives a root canal.
Until even the first song we danced to becomes the broth.
Not a chain of superstition, a bouquet.