Riesgo

You called it a risk,
that joke you told.
The one which made me laugh
and sigh
and will the sun to shine brighter on the moment
that I might remember it better.
You called it a risk
as though every word I sent your way
were not weighted on boundless odds;
As though worry didn’t rule the hours
between one word and the next;
As though I wouldn’t drain the sea
for you to love me for a summer
(and I’ll love you three winters more.)

Rosas

I will turn you into poetry:
wring the words from my skin,
those beautiful lyrics you poured on me all night.
I will stitch them together,
unaired,
your scent all over them;
all over me.
I will weave your words into a sonnet
of gods and loss and roses trodden into earth,
petals soft underfoot,
their sweet bruises lining my every step.
I will turn you into poetry
to read with breakfast
and recite at dinner;
to lull myself to sleep with the steady gravel of your tongue
and your scent on my shoulders.
I will turn you to poetry.
I will keep you this way.