Sinus Amoris (Bay of Love)

You were late. I was
irked. I’d saved you
a seat in a packed room.
I was sad you’d missed
the poem about preparing
to one day wipe the butt
of the one you love.
During the Q&A
an older man was asking
more of a comment
and I turned around
and there you were
standing closest to him,
and your face was so
funny: Don’t do it, man;
don’t embarrass us all.
The debut of your face—
a nervous, warning petal
on a wet, black bough—
was a love poem, too.
We shared a slice of
cheddar-broccoli quiche
in the café, then went out
into the cold wind.
Steely rolls of clouds
with flat bottoms,
pale orange light below.
We walked the path
the tornado took
twenty years ago,
Iowa Avenue,
ripping off roofs
and hurling cars
into trees. No trace
of it now, and barely
a hint of spring—
only the first few
forsythia petals
which you made sure
I noticed (I might have
walked on by) and the
Nanking cherry blossoms
neither of us could have
named had I not
stopped to feed them
into my app before jogging
to catch up with you.
You don’t care about
the names of things,
but you care more
than anyone about
the direct encounter,
raw and holy as the wind
piercing our skin
as we headed west,
blowing my pink
pashmina into my face.
Suddenly warmer,
I didn’t swat it away,
I just followed you
blindly down
the boulevard.