Spadework

I want you to see my cowboy boots
and if legs are stems, all the other
flowers that thrive up there, rare
and ordinary, slow calla lily and
Jerusalem artichoke.

I want you to see my wild red ring
and if fingers play keys, then I press
each one of yours, slow suspended sevenths,
because I know how you like
that aching kind of sound.

I want you to see me up against books
and if bodies are texts, we are this
momentary gem, Nobel prize
for fiction, thin-skinned flyleaves of
every unreal.

I want you to see me in coarse daylight
and if myths utter truth, know me without
rehearsal, comb petals from my hair and
forgive me all the careful planting,
the will to conquer and allure:
pry the spade out of my hand.