Blue Angel 2

By Nancy Lynée Woo

At the door, as your hands greet awkwardly:

Why hello, perfect timing, I just woke
from a lucid dream and telepathy’s blasé today, so
would you like to read each other’s mouths instead?

When the plates are set and the server starts flirting:

Shrug. You know what they say,
when you’ve got one fish in the pocket
all the rest want to snuggle.

The topic of ex-lovers suddenly comes up:

My alter ego has always been celibate.

Once words start floating into dreams:

Which equations do you use to get from here
to z-space? Sigh.
Caterpillarholes are the most romantic.
(Love is not a race.)

When the meal is over, in a state of pleasantly plump:

Doesn’t yoga make you want to burp
out the toxins of the flesh?
And stretch all the way out to Tibet?
Then slurp.

On the walk back to your downtown flat:

One step, two step,
red fish, blue fish.
How many eggs have you learned how to crack?
Can you suck out the sand with your tongue?
And then grow rocks back?

Back home, at the door, trying to see the hook
in the other’s face:

The world is a wide, mad sea.
On a scale of 1 to thrilled,
how invested are you in storms?

I keep my rain jacket handy just in case.

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