After Joan Larkin

I once wanted a river—to bend it

over my knee, my toes sinking into moss

as green and thick as shag carpet.

Now, I want an ocean, its salt

to brine me. I want one body

like bread, to sop up sun spilling

hot as egg yolk. I want language

the length of the day, to speak

in moons at night. I want a dog

and an open field. The dog and I

belong to each other. The field belongs

to no one—a wave of grain, I guess.

I want its gold shimmer. Then again,

the palm tree fronds do sparkle

no matter how strong the breeze.

It only gets green, then greener.

And when it is over, I want to

return, not as a ghost, but as dust:

a confetti in the dirt, then gone.