You’ve asked me if I love you
monogamously.
No. No.
I love you when I find your hands
in a barista pouring a cup of coffee,
when your laugh bubbles up
from the mouth of a flight stewardess
30,000 feet above New Mexico.
I love you when your smile
peeks out on a grandmotherly
grocery-store cashier’s lips,
because you might be twenty-three,
but you have a smile born in 1939.
Every woman I fall in love with is you;
you are every woman I fall in love with.
