What We Treasure is Not Always Ours

In the googled photograph, your hand placed squarely in the center of your chest  
as though laying claim, finally, to your own body—and at first  

I have to catch my breath. Though what I want to say is, yes.  
How beautiful to see you baring those dark eyes beaming their skylight to the whole  

of the wholeness of you. And the quiet way you gesture here your heft; an arrival  
into your body (blue cocoon, house with many rooms) 

in which I know you longed to feel at ease. That, yes, darling, I saw this photograph 
too, though it was not meant 

for me. What I want to say is—I had at first to catch my breath. Remembering you  
lifting your shirt by a mountain stream, that first green dive  

in the luminous pine. Each inch of bareness, those breasts—sip to sip and peak to peak.  
Though later, it was no longer easy between us.  

You, darling. All the woman in you that was no-woman, all the man in you that was  
no-man, all the anguish amidst the folding and unfolding  

of our years and those mornings in the garden—the yellow plums, the snail’s sleuth,  
the bowls of sungolds, the showdowns and whirling whirlpools. 

All the anguish but all the springs too. And after  
you would not ask me to call you by another name, though we both knew  

you wanted me to. Years, darling. And there you are—now, you, in this photograph  
caressing your own smooth chest, a scruff of fur at your chin. There you are.  

Whosever light shines their light on you, eyes two countries—one of torched  
wildflowers and ash, the other of romance and redemption, there you are, saying, yes.