seeing you again after years of seeing you again, first draft

eyes like the inners of poppys,
thin strips of black, tiny blood
notches dying when they lick
the blonde hairs of winter; or,
when they see me, approaching
you, oxford shoes sticky with
beer, braided waist, breaths
folding in, batter. the woven
man you are is not only fed
by my hands; you are other
woman's cream, breath, the
bones that build eggs.

I knew how to sew your hands
with pears, ready; strip calloused
air from your lungs, put the dust
in golden knots to keep you one
thing in the many handfuls of past
we throw, i tie; but you missed
what fades in old water;

miss nothing in my crochet gates
and how they forgive cold, my
warm lethargy, salt, nothing
of my clapping self, my drear
morning glory, my bogonias
open, sucking for light,
heaving sex and eggs of
color, it's prowess of
sewing light into genes.

oh no,
you wanted nothing
that could find tiny glitter
on a steamboat on a shelf
high in the sea, or anything
worth it's weight in water,
in image, in the sigh of
blank relief, and point
and say, "that. that is all
you need to want for
now. that is all you
will ever need."