I wish your words were my hands, she said.
Maybe you'd understand, she said,
The lay of the land,
The light in my eyes.

I wish my mind was your heart, I said,
Such a good place to start,
And so soft to find,
Much warmer than mine.

I wish your words were my hands, she said,
I've been thinking of you,
And swaying my arms,
In time to this tune,

Up over my head,
In the long flimsy dress,
The one you love best
With buttons descending.

I wish these days
were small gifts, I said,
Somehow never ending.
I'd give them to you instead,

Wrap them in white
New-bled gardenia weave
With eggshell clouds overhead
(Look how they roll up their sleeves)
Barefoot and bending.

I want your poem in my mouth, she said,
The young pitch of swirl, she said,
The bitteroot wine,
(King Solomon's kind)
The shepherdess feeding.

I wish this world was your heart,
I'd play my own tiny part,
Deliver my lines, I said,
In rhyme with the beating.

I wish your words were my hands, she said.
My little life so far spent, she said,
Look what I've bought,
Much more than I thought,
(Much less than I sought.)

I'm getting ready now to leave
These hand me down dusty wings,
The dewy hinges of night
Creaking closed at long least.

Goodbye dear hunger at last, she said,
You don't have to speak, she said,
My bread in your wine,
I broke in your arms.

And let your words be my hands,
She said, To curse the dark clouds,
She said, they'll live in my head
Long after I've gone.

. . .

copyright 2001, Linford Detweiler