The Water Tower
This time last year
I was in love
on a tin-top roof as cold as the sky,
dome-middle metal reaching up to those stars.
I return there,
sometimes,
to search for pocket-treasures,
things that fell out there with you.
Everything I owned was in my pockets.
Annnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:
Crush
By Ada Limón
Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft side with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the indelible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.
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