The teeth on your dress 
have become my favorite 
thing to touch, but lately 
I’m afraid they will bite back, 
the coyotes howling in the cautious, 
constrained dark that we tiptoed 
through after hours to see the moon, 
wild and glorious. Grow a garden, 
my mother says, so I spray peony 
perfume on my pelvis and parade 
prom heels in your outgrown home 
for a date that I despise. I pluck 
each dandelion and blow seeds 
into the wind to show her that even weeds 
can be beautiful. I want to tell her 
that I’m in love with you, but I can only imagine: 
Someday you’ll find a better man. We lie 
in unzipped sleeping bags 
and leave our socks on dry rocks
after dipping them into Colorado alpine creeks. 
Together we float on Orion’s belt 
and wring out our wrongs, your skin 
soap soft, the scent lingers. 
In barren winter, you lured 
the lost cat home and overhead, 
I saw my first shooting star. 
The light blossomed.