I’m caught in the talk of hands and his
cup, cull, pluck sound to a clutch,
cock each note on its swerving stem.
This crazed bouquet he calls “Anniversary”
is mine to saw and water, tenderly,
so I tend days and decades
cascade, send us back
to the very place we met head on.
The wedding song I’ve sung sounds
nothing like his music,
only the hum, perennial,
of kitchens, beds made with rustling sheets.
Did I take this brash man,
stake his every claim and clamor
in my lawless heart,
and don’t I leap each time
cymbals hit the ceiling,
then fall back laughing into his lap
every year, encore,
settling the score?
for Helen and Elliott Carter and Joseph