Bud

Jillian Blackwell

The morning at the window budding like cauliflower
blind-white spots bloom across my vision like baby’s breath flowers.
I am unable to form words in my mouth. I have never been able to like
oatmeal raisin cookies.
My teeth blossom blandly in my mouth
pressed tulip-like against your morning mouth.
I have rarely been a woman in a bathtub, islands have rarely been my knees. My skin is dry
and warm and somber blushed against your stomach.
Soon I will be sober with the day and sad with the night, so you and I linger in
the obese morning. We are growing old.
I point my toes.
I yawn bitterly, like horehound candy. My sheets have brown flowers on them.
You are almost ink-ripe. You will write things soon.
But first in the morning, we’ll think of hometowns and weather that is different than here
and always better and I will remember picking up eggplants as a grocery store cashier.
My parents’ wedding rings were gold and pebbled.
I have never been able to like oatmeal raisin cookies.
My mother will get married again some day soon.
The morning at the window, infant-yellow and needy, doesn’t want us to think about
anything else.
I have sunken back into the concave of you.
We return to delicious, bald-faced sleep.