after Dorothea Grossman
It was your idea to teach me how to sleep
under the stars how to hold a gun how
to shoot it in the air and firework it
across the setting sun a silver dragonfly
with a singular purpose: to hunt
and snap its mouth around the sweetest bee—
pluck it right out of the air—
I didn’t know love could be so loud.
And once, the fields of soybean and mice
became a kind of prayer,
shushing tassels on the blown-back
calico curtains of your childhood bedroom
where you kissed me my shoulders
before the window— I never saw the ribs
of a silver silo that way again.