To the Word Wife

To the Word Wife
By Carol Berg

Today I said to the word
girl, rinse your hair
with rosemary,
mark your mouth
with tumultuous
red lipstick,
cup your
naked
breast.
I said to her
be the curvy
word he wants
to slide
down his chest –
word to hold
with tight hands
word to grip
with his thighs.

Then
the word
wife
clambered back
into
my underwear
drawer.
I tried to convince her
to come out
hang
with just me.
Come on,
I said. Let’s
wander
into these woods.
We’ll find
silver rings
the blue jay
and cardinal
hammered
from their song.
We’ll hide
tiny blue planets
in our pockets.
The river stones
gleaming in iridescent
greens will hold our
hands,
pumice our calluses
until our skin
starts thrumming.
Little garden snakes
will share
thimble-sized
cups filled
with something
like white wine.
You and I
will drink, then lay
down in the meadow
as the clover
leans closer
breathing their spicy
sighs along our cheeks.

But wife
the word said
nothing,
too busy
folding my panties
pajamas
searching in the corners
for one lost sock.

after Pablo Neruda

The Sylvan Echo