James

When I taste you, James,
I sense a drop of iron,
a drop of sugar, a drop
of soap, and gone are
the exhalations of past
lives. And those who care
to stand back don't
know this, don't wash
with your air (tobacco
reek, ash, limp hair).
One day, long ago, I came
up to you and announced
my hope for you (for me)
-- let's get in bed and
we've now been together
for years and I am used to
all your airs -- even
the one where you push me
away in the summer because
my skin is too hot -- even
the one with which you
pursue me through fall,
etc... -- even the one where
we fight for weeks, leaving
school, leaving jobs, leaving
family, kids, cats, goats, and
dogs outside the bubble where
we speak at our own frequency
and think of only each other.
I keep smelling dirt, mint, and onion there.

Copyright Louise Robertson