Seven Verses in Aquamarine

Happy Birthday to The Princess of New Orleans

Alternatively titled: Stags, Dogs, and Finches, Oh My!

For my dear friend Lucy; I started writing this poem the day we met.

---

I.

In our unripe abode by the sea, I feel a pinch,

This touch of fate a sign that true love is imminent.

I find her easily, spotting her sly smile, my goldfinch.

Sweaty butts cling to fake leather, coincidence

Bringing our secrets to light before the sun sets.

These archival secrets are for our eyes only.

I left my shavéd head in the past with regrets,

Holding my particularities tight, can I avoid being lonely?

Salt water morphs me into a mermaid, stuck in a net,

Held down by pirates who hate my true temper,

They demand I repay an imaginary debt.

You reveal your role as noble knight, my southern saviour,

Carrying my scales across the slippery deck,

Your ardent intuition lets my legs regrow.

Caught, we walk the splintered plant together;

The water imbues courage through a gentle glow.

In the deep, my tail regrows just in time,

For the pirates are chasing, swords held high,

Swinging in unison, catcalls in rhyme;

We escape in the blink of an eye.

The saltwater bites at the nape of my neck,

Footprints are washed away by the rolling tide;

The girl from Louisiana takes me to a discotheque.

Shaking off the damp, I dress myself in forgotten pride.

We run to the diamond lights, the once-empty room,

Setting our aquamarine eyes on the karaoke machine,

We decided to break the curse of girlhood gloom.

We do not dance, yet we shimmer, almost nineteen.

Summer dwindles to fall; the clock begins to tick,

This moon-built love is serious, and it makes me sick.

II.

On my natal day, you salt circle my mind:

The crinkles of your eyes are the best gift of my life.

You show me god is real, you unravel my twine.

In the Wheypat, we gut others with a knife;

I have met the love of my life, but in water with this alligator,

I turn off my nightlight.

The rabble around us needs a translator,

To keep up with our love, famous bright.

We kiss the wrong boys, and the stars protest,

Cursing us, hissing in tongues,

We ignore what shines, ignorant of what is best.

Cosmic revenge is sweet, pressing at my lungs,

I can only see the black and white; you scale your life by grey.

On cold cement I pray for your return,

Scribbling one thousand and one versions of what to say.

I am adamant in my hatred, but only love makes hatred burn.

We have rough hearts, born from lugubrious past;

Yours truly gets upset and throws a temper tantrum,

I return to the blueprint and remind myself we are made to last.

Eyes paint murals on cold ceilings, my heart is a drum,

The voice in my head loses her cool;

If I cannot have you, no one can, and I curse your new shadows;

New England’s inferno dulls without Louisiana’s fuel.

I make new friends in sorrow: Kathy, Colleen, Ava, and tobacco.

I love them dearly, but they are not you.

Your ghost will not leave my bed, tinting me blue.

III.

Katya and Paul are impressed by my choice of friends,

Thank You cards adorn the fridge,

We find Narnia in New England winter, and let affection ascend

To unwise heights, considering the altitude of our bridge.

Days like these, I want to pack away,

Promises are made, and in sleep I breathe

Your breath, listening to what we can’t say.

When dawn comes, you will leave.

I do not want the snow to melt, for contours of sorrow to appear,

Because right now, your warmth holds me like cashmere.

IV.

Magnets turn, the tide recedes,

On Tuesday, God is pronounced dead,

He leaves me with a wound that always bleeds,

Notebooks sputter and choke with things unsaid.

The current swells, a wine-dark blue,

Spitting foam of words not meant, tones misheard,

Our hands break apart, otherworldly currents unsticking our glue.

I feel sick with the thought that I have caged the bird.

A dirty landscaper breaks my heart,

Kissing me sweetly just to kick me out,

I want to call you up, hear you rip him apart,

Yet the miles might restick the glue, so I release the line and free the trout.

Anxiety shakes the plane, a baby wails,

Under my feet, the Atlantic rolls with a fervor,

Acid flies from the blowholes of the great blue whale;

August took God from me, turbulence reverts me to a believer.

I lace my sneakers and circle the track,

Left, right, left, right, left, right, I want you back.

V.

I lie to my friends and say that it is over,

Yet God watches me pray over a four-leaf clover.

VI.

When the lights are dim and the skirts are short,

I feel safe from the blades that you call eyes.

In my castle, I control the court,

So I call you into my quarters and bastardize

An apology— you get the message regardless—

In our embrace, the stars rejoice.

We return to the dancefloor, twins, starlets,

The next time we meet, it is a choice,

Not an encounter that makes me sweat bullets,

Rather, a conversation that begins with an embrace;

Suns can set and rise again, so says Catullus,

We prove him right and seal our fates.

You compare my eyes to the Scottish sea,

I take your words to heart and reveal my hiding spot,

Hid by titan rocks and a seaside tree.

In this grotto, we cannot be caught.

No tea leaves know what we will do next,

That is part of our charm, the lure on our line;

Our unpredictable nature demands respect.

Tropical weather sets our stars in stone;

Foliage swags with buds and blossoms,

This sensation of solidarity is new, feelings not yet known,

Hopefully, our serenity is remembered in fossils,

As queens of glitz and glamour, we are impressions to be studied,

For we have knowledge to impart:

A flame is not your twin unless hearts are bloodied,

And the ichor is treated like art.

Twin flames should watch our patterns,

Copy how we breathe,

Otherwise, hearts are bound to shatter,

And weapons will remain unsheathed.

A war cannot be won in one spar,

It takes many spells and potions

To convince the sky to make space for two stars,

Who like to arm themselves with emotions.

I roll a joint and spark it with your smile,

The sun prolongs our delight and stills the sundial.

VII.

Though no seer can predict our nature,

My faith tells me that it will not be so treacherous.

We have read the reports and written new legislature,

Signing our names under ‘committed to appropriate reverence.’