by Gary L. McDowell

Let there be woman deranged made of words:
gardeners and snow-ghosts, moving lips
and butterfly-knots. Let there be.

Let there be man garlanded, houred.
Let there be up to our wrists a blind spot.
Let there be all that is forbidden:

songs of devotion, songs of mourning, songs
of fragile—kiss me in the whirling.
Let there be a cup of sugar. Let there be madly

open mouths, bone-stars, two bodies
in bed. Let there be undoing and more time.
Let there be a fever to subside, apple-picking,

the dipping of hands together, touch and more time.
Let there be a spine, a book leafed open,
selfishness. Let there be haircuts, matching

forks and spoons: the little things. The mice
that’ll nest in the garage. Do you trap them—or
let there be come, let’s go inside.

Let there be enough. Let there be. Let there be
lunch on a Tuesday. Quiet, more time,
two bodies because the world

could stand to be still sometimes,
and sometimes it never is, and so let there be wine
and pulp and singing and devour me.

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