Cynthia Arrieu-King

Certainty Mixed with a Blue Star

The horizon a sleeve cutting across the past. Yours.
Limits force an instant blush. I found a string of oceans

to watch at the strange drain of your back. At last,
pulling you across my mind, I notice your profile

is an arrangement of very ancient spoons.
A world, a jagged set of eyeteeth so quiet

my lips would slip across them buzzing.
Small hand, say in a crowd you miss me truly.

I have to get back to your feelings about pants:
to know is to not. And nearly as big, an empty

far away feeling – feeling its way across brief
description – floats certainty with a blue star.

At last a world where such promising shoulders
had, like a small portrait, said I missed you.

Now what I desire stacks two chairs quietly. Strings
coral beads taut. You are warm enough aren’t you?

Who else can feel the blanket you wrap around
the room? Can I admit I had not intended

to think about you all the way home? Now
walk me home, this jaw-block of several angles

last popular before any war. Calm walk,
that wasn’t so hard was it? Un-coded by crowd,

I see your white forehead smooth as a bottle.
O good. Your face with panels and angles,

throwing mint and hot, don’t say goodbye now:
For the love of what’s stirred, you talk, then I’ll talk.