Someday I’ll Love—

^{—after Frank O’Hara}

like I dreamt of the lamb—slaughtered,
           forgotten,
lying on porcelain tile, on crimson-filled grout—
           and woke up thinking of my grandmother,
of her Betty Boop hands that held 
marbled stone, held dough-balled flour, 
held the first strands of my hair floating atop the river—

like winter apples, the ones that hang outside
my living room window and survive first snowfall 
to feed the neighborhood crows,
           how they fall
beneath my boots, staining my rubber 
soles with epigraphs of rot, epigraphs 
           of fors, of dears, of holding on till frost’s end.

Someday I will see long-forgotten fingerprints 
on the inside of my eyelids as I go to sleep,
as I close my eyes for silence on a Wednesday,
mourning—seeking—creases and smile lines, 
           porch lights and swing sets, 
summer nights of lightning bugs and Johnny Cash.

I think it will be a Tuesday, or maybe someday 
is yesterday, is two months from now, is going 
to be a day when I forget what I’m supposed 
           to be remembering.

For now, I will paint my nails cradle, adorn 
my skin in cloth that doesn’t choke,
tell my bones that they are each 
            a lamb             
                       remembered.