Mayfly

Let’s say you had three wishes.

I never know what to wish for.

Okay,
I’d like to be a mayfly. Sleeping
for three years in sand, then waking:
a few hours of gossamer life. Jewel-blue wings.
Maybe that.

I told you I never know what to wish for.

Two?

Why are you asking me all these questions?

Three?

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
without spilling,
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.