Sing me the song of olives you made

into rings around your fingers.

How each was a vow —

the kind of promise you pop

in your mouth, wedged between tongue

and wondering.

You and I took the boats

out in early fall. Our reflections

were phantoms paddling

backward on the water,

stuck in time

crinkling light

I drank you from glasses to neck tie

under the weight of burgers and verandas.

In September the trees melted like Dali’s watches

waving goodbye with cold clock hands.

every day since, snow and sycamore.

~

small talk plinks 

one piano key. another.

we compliment, cover,

we laugh about the weather.

nestled languid

your dreams, forgotten nebulae

in the faded supernova

I used to play with.

~

There’s so much more to me now

more salmon, more sadness.

I am pinker inside, rare as rubies.

and I’ve made too many promises

to fit on all my fingers

~

olive —

you smile up politely as if I’m

a Christmas present destined to be returned

once the guests leave.

~

But I remember when

you kissed the head of a frozen tulip

and said “you are the prettiest I ever saw”

because sometimes you have to lie

a little when you want something to bloom.

I am not the crazy one

although I remember in black holes

although I never learned how to

throw a baseball

I will fight for you.

 (oh, but

 we need something bite sized 

to talk about.

 a butterfly

tickling around on my cheek.)

We’ll watch the little guy swim into the breeze.

so tell me what that feels like.

it ought to be the smallest talk of all.