I was wondering if the scarf made last year
feels warm and soft to your neck
holding above the chin I have bitten and kissed
or
if the Victorian blanket I knitted
covers well your knees
the ones I caressed when they were sore and bruised and bleeding
or
if you’re still listening to
the carol I sang in a lower key
after I cried and cried with my arms in a knot around your waist on that platform
or
if you are growing the tulip bulbs I’ve sent you
in a row, in a bunch or in a pot?
are the reds mixed randomly with the yellows?
or
if on our chess board
my queen has yet taken
your king

has the sorrow in your heart
been replaced with the
helium
of a party balloon?

every word you send me is a secret silver bullet fired under a full moon
this is our cozy underworld
the rest is nothing