by Allison Grayhurst
I can’t be and think like you,
majestic in your sensuality,
Godless but deep with sorrow, forever restoring.
From you I see women’s hips.
And though I would never care to shield kisses upon
their soft swaying mounds, your waters swell
and grow and make me long for Spanish trees,
seascapes I saw as a child. Rising male, always like a mountain,
you pick granules from the ground, place sand on your tongue
and name the sensation.
If I could be and think like you,
like a river that has known no footprints,
gathering rowboats, families of endless generations,
my house would sing, fruit would fall and
I would hold a hand, glorify each fingernail, memorize
the exact curve of each cuticle. I would retire,
rest my shoulders on an old bed, loosely clothed,
feeling the Mediterranean heated breeze encompass me
like a lover’s welcoming demand for unity. Speaking,
my words would drip like oil, gifts
of oil and bread.