i want to hold hands
to completion. where “to become”
means to envelop. our sea shell skin
holding the muscle of our desires.
where is your longing located?
is there a key in your drawer
salvaged from a pile of footsteps.
i used to collect rain
in mason jars in case the sky
turned into my fingers & forgot
how to let go. steam from a cup of tea
nests with cirrus wings inside
the sock drawer. do we all handshake
with ourselves? do we all
encounter moments of sameness.
a need to tie the hot air balloon
to the front porch & say,
“that too is mine.” taking my day off
one sock at a time. remembering
my barefoot years where no matter what
no one could coax me into socks.
was i against pairs? i believe
i still am. i prefer odd numbers.
a third earring to hang from
the ceiling before exiting a scene.
a third sock, unknotted & asking
to be filled with pennies.
i say, “quarters” & let the states
be swallowed one by one.
where do you put your toes
in the dark? i curl mine.
tiny fish hooks or tulip buds.
waiting for the company. mostly,
i want to discover the alone i had
last year standing at my dresser
pressing one sock into
the chest of another & thinking
“i want to be this fabric,
i want to be kissed through
a fabric mirror.”

—Robin Gow (rougarou)