Seventeen years of
heroes and lovers
was only ever Kansas.
You, the summer tornado
that ripped open her heart
to the fearsome colors.
When the stars fall, then do they fall to you?
Do you collect them in your room, in your fists?
And is your blood red like ours,
or a string of lyrics, if you opened your vein?
The scar, the recipe for spring.
Your hesitations reinvent color.
Your choices taste like fireworks.
Your whispers, the ghosts of philosophers,
the ones who spoke truth as best they knew how.
He shakes my tidy box of labeled dreams
until its bows are undone, a timid musician
in designer jeans who explains the economy
in a way that makes sense. He offers to drive,
steers with one hand while he seeks a certain song,
redefining my ideal until it is far more important that
a man can talk finance, sing softly in the driver’s seat,
and delicately raise one eyebrow into a perfect arch
like a cartoon villain or a famous work of art.