our four bare feet would warm to burning
on the cement alongside the garden,
you’d reach your palm under a ripe tomato
and I’d know you were asking permission.
I’d tuck a marigold behind your ear,
say nothing when it starts to wilt.
(every dream of you is like this,
sneaky and saccharine-edged.)
you would refuse to eat cotton candy with me
but you’d like how the sugar hits my lips.
I’d tuck my fingers at the nape of your neck
and pull. I’d imagine the scent of your skin.
I would find out.