By Lilly Yu
cornsilk yellow, seawater green,
full of dark star-point eyelash eyes.
he wants to touch her shoulders and kiss the clavicle
and ask her what she wants to drink —
pale green martinis, tall glasses of pink daiquiris
glistening with water vapor.
(she wants sparkling Perrier, the sunshine of lemon zest)
he wants to know what she wears to bed
(silky foam-pink nightgowns)
and how she always smells like gardenias, salt-water,
a mixture of green chlorine (from the kiddie pools,
in Jackie-O sunglasses and pale-pink lips, pearls,
eating pistachio ice cream under the white sun)
he wants to know if he can take her hand,
her sea shells for fingernails,
and grasp the small bones in her wrist,
the sun-dust on her fingertips, on her eyelids
above those wet star-point lashes.
he wants to ask if she will lead him by her hair,
yellow and fresh cornsilk green and
(yes, she will lead him into his delicate decadent sea dreams)