jam

Spring 2010

When I think about you, I cannot think and
I cannot write metaphors about feeling
that I am a blossom on a cherry tree
in DC in the Spring when the sun is
prying open my petals and pulling out
the warm, sweet scent: its essence.
I cannot say, ‘You are the sun,’ that
you are the sun that slips into my
curled limbs and beckons them,
‘Open. Open gently and fill the air, and
bloom, boldly.’
I cannot think of you and the sun.

I do not lace my thoughts with images of
my grandmother’s strawberry jam
on multigrain toast—the kind with
sunflower seeds— on a tray with that
cherry blossom at the foot of the
white-sheet bed we’ll never share:
my hand is not on your chest.
You, the sun, shine,
like the most glorious morning,
on ourselves through the skylight
Your smile when I smear the jam on
your cheek does not move in me, Sun.

When I see you, I cannot even begin to
imagine spotting you in a bustling
room when the people vanish or blend
into a murmuring wave as I pick you from the chaos.
I would move through high tides in that sea,
the cherry blossom floating on the crests,
to splash you and wipe that jam from your face.
I cannot imagine finding you in a city
or ocean or any field of green or gold or dirt.
No, I don’t see us boarding a flying boat,
at the dock where the sea is behind me and
only you, Sun, are ahead with sky awaiting us on
a trip to see the trees in one Washington or another.

Some indulgences here that I need to work out, but I hope you'll enjoy. I've been overwhelmed at the stats here over the last week and I'm so appreciative of all of you taking minutes out of the day to read my thoughts and words. I feel loved and supported each time I check in. Thanks for being here, and, as always, thanks for reading. -- E