I’ll wear your mittens

For more information about Boar's Tusk, click here. 

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When you come back, 

make me tofu. I’ll add a smidge of me 

with you. 

 

Gather your mismatched measuring spoons - 

a plastic T, a stainless bent ½ tsp. 

When you leave again, I’ll need them 

for tempeh, einkorn, seitan, and farro. 

 

In an old bookshop along a salty beach, 

find me Out of Darkness. Show me 

The Bluest Eye. I miss the precise hue 

of yours – cerulean. 

 

When you come back, walk to work. I’ll listen 

after you call me on your phone to cars and trucks 

braking on one way streets, copters landing and taking off. 

 

Cast your leftover words, detritus or usurp, my way. 

I’ll find detritus under your oak tree after mice 

have usurped its leaves. 

 

All I can see is you in photos of the Vedauwoos, 

batholiths of granite with blockades of aspen groves 

blown flat by straight line winds, your best haircut 

under a watchman’s cap, wrinkles veiled by shadows. 

 

When you come back, we’ll share steaming 

jalapeño pretzels in bubbly beer cheese 

with wine in chipped coffee cups 

and your mittens.