What I meant to say was
you and I, we’re soft
creatures who crave hard things:
jaws and roads and truths

What I meant to say was thank you
and goddamn, I love you
but I still had a chest of secrets
and thought I only had one heart to give

— Rae Theodore

#andreagibson

I wonder if you’ve got a chiseled jaw,
a sweet shot, a chest of open secrets,
a name tag that reads:
Holy Blinking Star, Highway Streak of Light

I met you that one time at City Winery,
told you books could be windows or doors
as if they were made in factories,
hung in houses by workers in boots

You cracked a crooked smile,
said you’d’ve never heard that one before
Handed me one gold heart, then another
because you had an endless supply

My wife says poetry readings
are heaven on earth
If that’s true, I wonder
what heaven is like for you

I watched you through my wife’s eyes
watched her laugh and cry,
thinking I tricked time
to hear your words again for the first time

After the show, we queued up to meet you
I practiced saying something clever
about how books are either doors or windows
but yours are both to me

We went to see you at City Winery
right before the pandemic,
though highways make me anxious these days
and my cat never wants me to leave

There you were on a purple stage,
you and Meg and an old Underwood
loved up under a neon red heart
hung like a moon