I love your loose tee, crumpled over stiff
jean short—if we were kids I’d cower under
your blonde cliff edge, streaked in wet
trails of severed nopales— here
at the playground—both our feet
nuzzled in cedar dust
tiny piles of tree
we timid but somehow chirping
for our baby in the baby
swing
I love that you trip glance
away from me, perhaps whisper a thing
to your husband I’d once hide from and still
hear— but a bull in the meadow stares
right at you, through you,
as though plumes and stem of moonshine
yarrow below
are its fur, as though my marrow
has hooves,
my brow of crescent horns
as though the sky behind me
is for me
at my tail, blue ends
in pink plush
ribbons of gold
the first star emerges
sister of the glinting next, next
thing you know it all
of them effervescing
into blackened hide
still so warm
and wise with birds.