Think about the house across the ocean.
The only kitchen I ever wanted to be in.
The walls were orange
and the sun only had to hit
the drawn shade to light the room on fire.
Think about the bedroom where I defined
pleasure and re-wrote my life dictionary.
Every word had a new synonym.
I erased antonyms like wrong numbers
on a math test.

I haven’t mentioned him yet, the one
who owned the house, the one who
kissed my hand and gave me the pen
to re-write.

Our cultures didn’t know what restaurant
to meet at; we just met on the couch,
laughing at the dining room table
(orange tablecloth), rolling around
in the immaculate white bed.

An ocean did not matter (we drizzled orange
dye in it so we could find our way back
to each other).

04/04/2006

Posted on 04/04/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky