Let’s say you had three wishes.
I never know what to wish for.
I’d like to be a mayfly. Sleeping
for three years in sand, then waking:
a few hours of gossamer life. Jewel-blue wings.
I told you I never know what to wish for.
Why are you asking me all these questions?
I’d like you to come over here
and hold my face
as if it were a cup of rain that you’re trying to carry
or a nest of warm goslings, or
the Tisza River, which I’m reading about,
shivering with thousands
of wings, a radiance of mayflies. Yes, just like that,
comb your hands through
my hair, take me
into the bedroom, close the door.