Come Home With Me

Feel the warm air around you.
The ceiling fans steady rhythm
and the heaviness of pale eyelids over your vibrant,
blue eyes.
Sleep upon antique rockers
made of pineapple fibers,
or lay yourself down on lush
Persian carpets.
Light a flame on wrought iron candelabras
and let the wind from Philippine Sea
and Indian Ocean reignite your spirit’s calm.
Sit on the kitchen counter top
as I preheat the oven.
Then pick two onions from the vegetable garden,
unpeel them,
slice them into halves,
and cut imperfect vertical lines for me.
Don’t shield your eyes – let them cry because I cannot.
Throw them into the pan
with melted butter,
let its golden smell console you as we watch
and stir,
over Chilean Malbec, and
dreams and seeds planted in college.
Set the table
with fine china and strong silver
while I massage fresh herbs and ground pepper into
the pure folds of seabass.
When my family comes,
exhausted by the chores of school and office
To us
preparing a small banquet...
smile.
ask them how they are
carefully listen to their answer.
The response does not lie in their words,
but in the beats and rests of their voices.
When they compliment us on a well-prepared dinner,
accept it with another pour of good red wine.
Take your time.
Relax and unfold at this table.
Dinner will last another two hours.
Don’t fret.
It will end with a mug of fresh, warm milk
and a ripe orange mango.
Retire to your bedroom,
the one I set up just for you,
with the deep blue walls,
archaic lamps,
dim yellow lights,
and the sight of angry seas.

And if you can’t sleep
(and don’t want to wake me.)
Walk around my home like it is your own.
Stand at compositions,
in every angle and light,
and think.
Of the multitudes of memories we are going to make
within these safe walls.