Please say you are lingerie
I can put on tonight,
the black garters
sexed, sleek, ignitable.

Say you are the red dress
I’ll slip into, the lining made
of paradise or the suede stilettos
cradling my feet, the straps
caressing my shins.

Say you’re my favorite purse
perched on the bed or the bookmark,
lovingly tucked inside
the pages of the latest
Sylvain Reynard
book resting on the nightstand.

Say you’re the sound of
Chet Baker’s voice
“sweet talking the void”
on vinyl, as I dance around
the room.

Say you are the blaze
of the moon, slipping
through the trees
peeking in the open window.

Say you are the air
suffused with the
sweet scent of magnolias
blossoming, petals opening
before they come undone.

Say you are the love revisions
being edited in bold font,
mating consonants
inside my head.

Say you are the backward
heat of my thoughts.
My body’s annunciation.

Say I’m the siren song
that will always call to
you, the music that will
never fade into the hollow
of the years.

Say you are the framed
photograph on the dresser,
the holy spirit of a
yellow tulip, say lace,
say wine, say peach,
say anything.

-Tosha Michelle