Loving you is like eating spaghetti with a spoon:
only the meatball part is easy.
Last night I had that dream again, the one where you are a highwayman
who kidnaps me and straps the iron mask over my lower face,
the one that transforms my cries into the clucks of birds,
a hybrid of Alexandre Dumas and H.G. Wells.
“Now anyone who hears you scream
will think you're just a barnyard animal being a barnyard animal,” you say.
The barn door slams shut.
I wake up and sit at the kitchen table.
I rub my bare, lipstick-free mouth with my fingertips
and feel giddy. I keep sitting and touching my own lips in awe
till breakfast is done cooking, till the purring toaster
has reached its inevitable climax.