“Starting a poem ‘Love is’
seems just so…so…so…
“Stop worrying about it and
just do it. Who gives a fuck?
You’re the artist, it’s your art.
Do what you want,”
I love it when she swears,
but I haven’t told her that before.
And she lets one rip,
long and loud, thick like I can see it,
a fart with dreams of world domination,
a war trumpet of the intestinal tract.
Giggles, then starts to billow the sheets
‘til we’re bathed in methane.
And really, I’m not reminded of dinner.
I’m imagining the scents of jasmine and lavender.
Detections of red rose,
Okay, maybe not.
But I abide. I don’t care.
I’m used to her scent by now.
And I let one roar of my own,
deep like a foghorn,
cutting through bedding
like an ocean liner through the mist.
and I reciprocate
by billowing the sheets some more.
And before I know it
I’ve rolled over to turn on the bedside lamp,
letting me scratch in my notebook:
Love is the broccoli farts
we feel wash over our skin
as welcomed matching
one piece footy pajamas
and we don’t care.
We’ll wear them with pride.