Kissing Chava

The creak of the stair lets me know you
are there, in fairy silk, lukewarm tea
in an old China cup, right around the
corner with your Bible at your breast,
nose upturned as you drink in oolong,
white shift, quiet toes, old Boston
mansion, we settle to look out on the
harbor and gulls cry out their elegies
I would kiss you in dreams but awake
you just want cannoli from North End,
so we meander down ancient stone to
the tune of buskers and young laughter
damask clouds of dawn wisp above, and
you hold my hand, your skin is cold,
and you ask me my name, and I say to
you that I am the mountains given life,
born to rise up to meet your sea, and
you laugh at my stupid metaphor, then
peck me on the forehead like a fox,
we stroll under ancient oak and hickory,
spring rolls out flowers for our venture
an avenue of blossoms I pluck for your
honey hair, but the truth is I am walking
with myself, for I am the girl who is
never alone, and that I kiss my soul,
when my spirit leaves my body in an old
dusty mausoleum, seeks refuge in pinewood
floors, awakens in a bay window, and takes
herself out on a date, wedding gown, I
married Eve, and she is All Women, so in
companionship of the self, I am free.


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