At least for today I don't want to shrink
you down to the size of a 
"thank you."
Thanks yous are for stone bracelets,
apricot scones, and the sputtering of the coffee pot 
in the mornings.
They're for blue birthday cupcakes
that wear icing like a wrinkled skirt--
Thank yous are four a.m.

Today I don't want to say thank you.
I want to say I wear
the things between us around my wrists
like leather bracelets-- they sprouted
my flower crowns and painted on the 
layers of my callous feet like slippers--

I want to say that the arches of your heels
stamp out the curvature of each vertebrae
I own-- wobble like river rocks and loose teeth--
I follow it each morning to the other side 
of a creek that just happens to be
the beach of Chingoteague
at sunset back when we both ate
crab cakes.
I want to say I remember you painted my
fingers like watermelons one night
when I begged you even though it
was late and you had just gotten
home from work--
I want to say only you were
the voice of the wind on a car ride.
I want to say I still roll down
my window to listen.
I want to say I'm sorry for all the
Dead Hyacinth bushes and African violets
I've bought for mother's days.

We've never been flowers mom. We've been
Amethyst and callous feet pressed on the lips
of a raspberry bush. We've been jars and  
the blueberry jam inside-- we picked each berry like pearls.
We've been peanut butter toast.
We've been the Wendy's road-stop.
We've pulled each other like pretzel dough
and weighted out some afternoons
like summer squash and zucchini.

You can always meet me where it smells
like burnt pancakes and the strawberry jam
we slide between them. Somewhere on the 
other side of creek that is also somehow
a beach we're always trying to find
but always end up on a back farm road
where the corn bows like cupcake skirts.