"Lucky"

That evening, she tried to heave her heart
Into her mouth. She said,
“I love your eyes, the way your hair curls
At the back of your neck. I love how you are with
Dogs, like a mate, a pack member. I love how you
Pick up broken things, like me, and don’t throw
Them away.

I love all the blue white of your cornflower eyes,
And the way they wet at joy and sorrow. I love your
Strong hands running over a piece of wood, lifting
a heavy weight or rubbing the small of my back.”

She was lucky, but she wasn’t strong. She was smart,
But she wasn’t disciplined. And she feared the words
“I love you.” Whenever someone said them to her, the
words echoed from a deep, uncharted wood, like distant
French horns through a fog.

And the words would come into her mind when she was
with her lover. The words hummed inside her, in the valley
of her throat, in the hollow of her hips, pricking the back
of her neck. The coveted words were a talisman, a keepsafe.

The words inside were a solid link, heavy metal.

That year, she bought him an id bracelet, fat links
Embracing the heavy center, “Lucky”. She had
Thought them lucky. Last night, the other words hid
Beneath her rib cage, and in the morning she found the
id bracelet frosted in the winter air on her front porch.

She put it on and slowly the heat of her own skin
Warmed the word.