We don’t converse as we did before.
Perhaps the cycles in our vocal chords
Have run their lengthy revolutions. Maybe we
Bite our teeth more, clench them every time
We can’t seem to find a new topic.
Maybe we were those oranges, peeled
And squeezed, until all the juice was poured. ,
So what do we do now love?
Shall we reroute our conversations to “what may be”
The future tense explored like a seed
Describing every one of her branches, petals and fruits.
Maybe then we will collect our dreams in a basket
And go on picnics, to where we have never been before.
We will feed us grapes, knowing our ears are fond of them.
We will take avocados, and scrape the pulp.
We will do mushy Kleenex miles
Of how a bird and a bee, could make a little balloon, bloat.
The future holds our conversation
In the absence of yarn from our past. The kites
We can throw to the sky, hoping for God’s Blessings.
A little baby who will transform our
Jaundiced conversations to golden moments.
What will be defined by our unity, in what two bodies can galvanize
In chemical bonding, in unexplored orbitals,
Hitchhiking in each other’s dreams.
– Perhaps there will be an ample time
For some viticulture and vinification –
When a corked uterus,
With a mucus plug called the operculum
Will age inside a cellar. While we buy wine glasses of every shape
And size, too caught up in the fanciful.
And a choice of odds cheering our dreams on.
Pinot noir or chardonnay?
It’s all in the tannins. In the Xs and the Y.
In beautiful couplings of serendipity.