Dada taught me cards.
Sitting in his suit of pants and vest.
A fistful of joker-red hair strewn across his brow.
His big belly like a cannon ball.

Dada has stories from Calcutta
wrapped up in his big belly.
When he belched they would unravel.

We watch them, hypnotized.
Pale and mysterious,
They rise and fall. Joe says
“They look like ghosts.”

Toothless, she kisses
with fleshy lips
rounded, like mouth
of a bottle, all wet

She bruises your face
almost, with two
loving tree-root hands.

My love is like a well-read book
which makes me smile each time I look.
It shouts and whispers, roars and sings
it grounds me and it gives me wings.