Instructions

Poem from a WWKC prompt

You can love me first by answering the phone
(no matter what the hour).
You'll know from the moment I speak 
where I'm living in this universe:
if I’m trying to layer on another coat of gloss,
if the spackle is crumbling from the holes,
if the lavender sunrise has lasted all day.
You’ll know, and because you love me,
you’ll go anywhere from there.

But this stanza is your continent:
if you love me you’ll let me live here,
give me the code to the door,
introduce me to the weather systems and
alter egos who follow the jet streams
to tell you just when the clouds 
will be too heavy to stay in the sky.
That is to say, 
I’ll know you love me because 
you let me in -- 
not just to clean up, or
drop off cookies, or
unload when I’m scared.
You’ll unfold --
good with me taking
your coarse, dry hand. 
If there is a “we” that
contains us, it exists at
in a diner booth on a 
Tuesday morning, 
with cooling coffees
conversation withering 
to breath. We fill up
our space to overflowing 
with silence plus wishes: 
dreams pulsing across 
forever and back, 
across the din
of clanking plates 
and waitress chatter,
the simmering day,
held together 
but barely
by longings
and love.

---

“Write a poem of instructions on how to love you properly.”

It’s April 17th. The first draft of this poem was written on March 12th, but I used my poetry time today to edit it. Thanks to

Frances Story

for the always-great prompts.