Yeti

In the sallow moon you called my smile a slice of lemon. 

You knew these things because you’ve only been blind for ten years 

and I’ve known you for thirty. 

Maybe you remember the way green opened your face up, 

the way I could ask you any question and the answer would be all mine. 

Mine to love and cherish, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, 

for richer or for poorer. 

We were always for poorer. 

Your pennies and my quarters, and all the spit and polish 

that poverty was given in those books, 

never really made us stop fighting when we were really worked up,
or made the flat tires go away. 

But the way the roof broke down and cried when the thunder came made us laugh 

and when the shoes grew gaps, we decided that

communicating with the earth was the best thing for us. 

Do you remember the time when I tried to explain snow to you,

the way it gave free kisses just because it was glad to meet you, 

the way it only made sound when you forced it’s hand. 

It was so silent when it met the earth, 

a shy maiden, blushing cheeks and pale skin.

 Close your eyes for just a moment in the silence 

and imagine the soundless peace it makes, it almost makes 

you wish your heart could stop beating its static beat for just a moment.

You rope me in and bind me to the night we found our names. 

When hand in hand we called the pines new names, 

and gave each squirrel its own great title.
By and by we became gods of our own new world, 

I called it Joie, you called it Lumière. 

We named our hands, fitted into one another like lost siblings, 

as if they always knew their other half spent much of its time

mimicking in the mirror to a conjoined song. 

The tenant doves were paired off in the oaks, 

and the bark was with the trees with otherworldly affection. 

The pinecones called each other brother and sister and slept close and died together. 

When that night we were all in love and everything else was too. 

You called me a name that burned my skin 

and I couldn’t even carry myself into your gaze anymore. 

Monster. It roared through the night air 

and blistered your tongue so badly, you clapped a hand over it and gasped. 

Love did not think of monster, 

believe in monsters, 

hide them under the bed, or shoot them in the closets. 

Love did not need monsters, 

Love did not need me.