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The bottom of night is a potato bin,
a place to snag what falls down the galaxy’s tin chute.
Is that where you caught me?
Did you lift me off an impression?
I would like to think that I was the real thing.
A Siren with white wings.
When you poured me into the mold of marriage,
did I jell, and yes, family says we both jelled quite well,
that we were in the thick of it
until I dug my way out.
When a man touches a woman’s cheek with a rose
it’s called getting the full
Seduction such as ours
was no brash happenstance.
Attraction pulls its bell and lays you out.
This bite on my cheek is no tattoo either.
It’s where the tickle-feather took root,
so don’t make small potatoes of it.
We were one rib on that bed.
Now the bell in the voice is only a signal,
a right or left turn. I first turned right, then left.