Someday I’ll love that woman for her hip
sway of hair graying the sky when there’s not enough clouds.
I hear she lives like the moon: opaque by day, glowing at night.
That she wears bee stings into the universe of online chats
& flamenco red lipstick in the shower.
If I open my diary to a blank page, I find her there buttonholing
a stranger for a crab cake recipe or to crochet a tree sweater.
Or she’s in my kitchen, perched on one leg, a flamingo
wearing an evening gown & drinking a martini. She’s pink & lustrous
& aging into this cultural moment like a tv star on late night cable.
& now, I find myself falling for her silk stockings, the fabric of her lies.
How she loses lovers like pennies down the gutter.
Still, I count on her even as she whippets beyond the frame.
You could say she’s my better half, a carafe of wine in.
You could say we’re mirror objects—appearing dangerously close.
But what I mean to say is that after all this time, I find myself
illusive as morning with a hangover. The mirror fogged
with the exhaust of my jet engine. Even when stasis is held
dear like robins’ eggs or a grandmother’s diamond broach.
Even idled, I find the chair I sit in emptied, the locks picked.