Décor ideas come to me
on late night walks,
as do the desires I struggle
to admit to myself.
We stroll together,
peering into tavern-lit
houses, snickering at
patterned wallpaper and
Godforsaken china cabinets.
He’s the only person who
hasn’t called me a stalker.
A portrait of someone’s
ancestor meets my gaze and
I pull him along, we won’t be
taking spirits home tonight.
I feel as though we’re all
clovers with one petal plucked,
one fragment of change, and
now I see myself picking
up groceries at a corner coop,
in a town where women
don’t shave their legs and
all my opinions are
better off as just that,
unshaven legs.
I thought I was too
independent to feel like the
buttercup flowers pressed
against my chin,
like the yellow streaks and
dampness they leave;
but that night, staring up at the
third floor of a Victorian house,
bikes on the porch,
our hands clasped,
I whispered to myself:
maybe.