This Love Is a Hyperlocation
We sit inside the flannel-soft whoosh
of the new dishwasher's first run.
We feel rich here, even on the floor
where I pick at crumbs along the drawers,
your paws folded into my lap.
Located outside myself,
I most often travel a lost map
as if through Alice's mirror,
but this love is a hyperlocation,
a here-ness that cannot be won but found,
a rare mushroom in the woods.
Your old, furry chest beats against my palm.
April is National Poetry Month, so I’m publishing poetry for NaPoWriMo throughout the month.