Yellow House, Well Furnished
Tonight there are Long Islands on the counter,
the dog and I are waiting for you,
and when you get here we’ll tell stories
that have nothing to do with our fathers.
Tell me the story of how you’ve swallowed
enough dirt. Remind me of the summer we fed
manatees in Florida, dried watercolor paintings
on the sunroom floor. Remind me of the humid night
I asked you
to marry me. You blushed and kept quiet.
When we returned home you painted the fence,
oiled the door hinges, replaced the water heater.
Marry me, I said. Again and again. In the
grocery store, buying oatmeal. At the airport.
In line at the DMV.
I said, Tell the story again.
How does it go? Tell me again.