REMI RECCHIA

Self-Portrait with Wife

My mouth is barren—beware: deer crossing—
and I am driving you to see your parents.

Signs of fallen rock, they do not know
tempest or late fee—only cracked birds’

eggs in the morning under dew-lit
sun. Your father already has five sons,

no need for more, but I kiss your lips
blue in our bed and pray to God for wedlock.

We see a dinosaur in the truck ahead,
or maybe three horses, or probably four.

An old IHOP swells large against the hill.
There are different kinds of hallucinations.

The radio creaks along in its sober static,
you sing along under evening breath.

Later we look at wedding gowns. Lace
draws your attention, veils keep mine.

We’ll grow our own sunflowers
next to the tomatoes and olives.

Silver moon gapes overhead, and I
feel my mouth fall out in your hands.

Love Poem in the Winter

I am suspended within you,
a daffodil caught upstream.

A salmon ate my favorite
mustard seed yesterday.
It was big enough to build
a faith, minimal error projected.

When I look at you, my cheeks
bloom helium red.
My lips part softer.
Your hands are the warmest
after-party.

Pave me a road and I will follow,
make me a bed and I will lie, tell
you stories to disguise world-bruises.
You are the proof
I never knew to look for.

If this is a sin, dig me
deeper; if you’re a drink,
then God, put it on my tab.
I’m forgetful, not old.
Wander with me.

Tree-reach and orange sky
surround us. I am as sparse
as a bird’s nest in winter.
Cactus calls in twilight.