9: Tangerine

Breakfast all day. In the afternoon heat you sit out on the porch and peel a ripe tangerine. Fruit squirting orange on your eyebrow. I wipe the sour dew off your face with my tongue and you tickle me until I’m pink. My cheeks flush with the colors of sunrise and inside the cat curls its tail around a blue ball of yarn. You have your mother’s eyes and your father’s taste in music, but lemongrass tea will let you forget. Stirring still. Stirring until. Sugar and shadow dissolve in honeyed ecstasy. We wash linens on cool Sundays. When blueberry saxophone calls me underwear and pancakes. I bought you gold loafers to match my color-marble pillow dress. And somewhere by the river a curtain flirts with an open window.

It is all so. Beautifully Mayjune. An interlude of months—time melts right before your eyes. All it leaves is a kiss on your forehead and lavender in your journal. Keep humming your favorite heatwave. Mosquitos like blood but love loneliness. Nets to feed your daydreams. Am I still your field of wild dragonfly. Al-Green until we fall asleep. The yolk in the sky made of warm elbows and fingertips. Caramel on the roof of your mouth. Lovemaking on the roof of this city. And everywhere. Eyelashes. Butter flutter memory.