Isle D'Ivoire

Between the sheets, and my blue dinosaur blanket,
I find a paradise once forgotten in a dream,
an island floating in the linen ocean
where you left your scent.

You wait for me in the palm trees, the sunrise
clasped in the palms of you hands.
"You can't miss this," you say, lifting
your smallest finger so I can see.

When I come to the island, I find you
straddling the curve of the earth, one foot
on each shore, fishing for summer orange
over the horizon, while you hang the moon
from your line like bait.

Why haven't you fished these past few nights?

Your skin was gingerbread from all the days
spent gripping the sun so close to your face.
I never expected you to pull it down for me.
But there it was, the day you left,
wrapped up in Christmas paper,
caught in the dome of a snowglobe.

Sometimes, between the sheets and my blue
dinosaur blanket, I find an island where it rains,
an island where I stand on ivory beach,
waiting for you to return so soft
between the sheets.