Pillow Talk by Alexa Abbruscato

I want to carry myself like the wind, she tells me.

I want to bend into your body and have it taste like magic,

flow into your soul.

                                        A lot like weaving rivers,

                                        a lot like scratches down your back.

An estuary dance into sleep. My wife is a conductor to

her own orchestra of breaths. She dreams in fruit and

sunlight.

                                        A lot like sorbet.

The hush of her own rest births a new sound of

serenity, and every pitch of release ejects a new

star out there in the cosmos.

                                       She is the wind, I tell her.

And she is music too. I know this as I watch the

rise and fall of her chest creating a crescent in

the shadow of a salt lamp.

                                       A lot like celestial orbit,

                                       a lot like still symphonies of space.

My wife paints nebulas on a pillow, and I count the

constellations on her back, it’s a timeless affair where

there is no aging here.

                                       A lot like dreaming.

With a gravitational pull towards our territories,

we are a collision of elliptic galaxies and bone,

supernovae in stone.

                                      You are a universe, I tell her.

I want to be the ocean current that is moved by you,

I want to make sound of spatial silence, and dip you

into my cup of stars, I tell her.

                                     A lot like discovery,

                                     a lot like planting seeds.