I tell of a man jailed for the fifth time
because of his fear of liberty and I say
because of my fear of life without you, I could be arrested too
but that’s about me and so I say it’s also true

that I can’t describe you because I’ve used up
my allotment of consonants and vowels except for double u’s
and since we’ve met it’s been a whirlwind
and I’m windblown and wayward.

Sometimes I tell them that you reflect the shine
juncos drop on shadows of falling snow or I say
that waking up, speechless Harpo is in my bed,
blonde hair like on the curly kale uncovered in March thaw.

Then I tell them you’re like pigeons on a peaked roof
or wasps in winter or gulls blown inland,
maneuvering between our laughs, their cries,
circling ghost-like over St. Mary’s cemetery,

a matted ocean of grassy graves
where violet blends into orange.
I never say you’re my main squeeze, gf, lover, old lady.
I say you’re more like a mackerel than a flounder

since you’ve got those pretty eyes on both sides of your burnished face.
I’ve even admitted to feeling like the Subaru when it kicked
into gear on its own, taking every zigzag of the driveway
until smashing backward into an oak. That’s how much the wagon

craved love—broken glass, crunched trunk, the mud—
and so I add you remind me of the old men gathered in storefront shuls,
reciting the blessing for the new moon of Tishrei
and how Coltrane played a different solo each night at the Vanguard

when the quartet laid down My Favorite Things.
And one final thing, I confess
you make me think of Daddy Wags,
Cleveland Indians’ leftfielder, I thought had the highest
and sweetest cheek bones
until I met you.