Lilac, the sun, eastward, blushy as the wound

that divvies my breast, organs gathered, 

 

lush, into bushels of hydrangeas,

budded at the lungs, immature and vernal,

 

dewy as oysters in the half shell, eyes soupy

with cataracts, my sewn-shut mouth moonless

 

silent as the satellite above the A-frame

Dairy Queen where, once, you fed 

 

a fawn vanilla soft serve from the cone. I 

said for the first time, then, that I loved you

 

and warm air rushed around me, 

your equinox unyielding and vital.  

 

Even now, I bet some girl is working 

at the window, making change, humming 

 

as she dumpsters the trash. You touch your lips

to my breast so the blood clumps out like colostrum,

 

and even though we cannot hear them, I promise you

that somewhere, the katydids are singing.