One Day the Rice Cooker Won’t Live on the Floor

Things I Say to My Partner

We will live, one day,
in a place with hinged doors.
The chairs will not whine
and the art will not be greeting
cards. Our basil will all be alive.

On cold days, because we will still
have cold days, we will gather
three dogs around the fire and keep
any sleep we find. One day,

we will not keep the rice cooker
on the floor. Our bedroom
will be its own room

with the right feng shui:
a flat ceiling, a full wall,

no doors at our feet.

August Peaches

We must eat the peaches today
for they are about to burst.

We left them like still
art until they softened
our longing
and stored each sunset.
But now, it is late
summer and no one
else is coming to visit.

In our palms, they crump
into twice-sliced
stars, pressed in
on the edges, sluicing
blushed juice. One brush
with water might bruise
its furred flesh,
we might dive
to kiss the counter, lick
the lines on our fingers,
and suck and suck
every ounce oozed
out. The first bite
will set off
its nectared geyser—
bright and quick,
tartsweet meteor,
chasing the inch
of our chins
our tongues cannot reach.

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