All that I love tonight—
your wide chest, its strength,
scent of lemon on your neck,
that smile rife with lyric teasing—
I almost didn’t learn; everything
is a slow articulation tugging us
toward something else, some other
avenue, a different sidewalk. At 3am
the garbage truck whirs and thumps
like the past come to life, knocking,
and I’m astounded that this world
muscles forward while I sleep.
Transubstantiation turns wet streets
into gleaming rivers; everything
delights me. I am broken open
by all that is simple. Neon lights.
Puddles. The white orchid you gave me
four years ago. I won’t say miracle.
I keep the word locked
in a dime-store diary that any key,
if small enough, can open.
by Rita Tiwari
Rita Tiwari is a poet and fiction writer. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Portland Review, CALYX, Saranac Review, and others. She is inspired by urban landscapes, film noir, and mythology. She holds an MA in Writing from Portland State University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Pacific University.
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