I want

After William Blake

Ground brown sugar; black grackle feathers by the hundreds; the short wooden body of a ukulele; a perfect oil stick that can roll over paper like blue sky; saffron by the armful; the distance of every horizon from the tip of every sail; the deep hard laugh of my best friend; Scotch Bonnet peppers by the spoonful; the curved back of a Hegel chair; the sudden height and disappearing steel of the St. Louis arch; a hot bursting blueberry after it’s baked; the burn at the back my throat from caramel bourbon, the drift of Himalayan sea salt to sop up light green oil on bread; I want a heart that can grow to four times its size and a brain to match. I want the 70s back, all of it. I want velvet crush socks and cashmere panties, black truffle dust, the low dusky sound of the bass. I want a small body growing inside my body that will climb from me and greet me with only hellos. I want the soft full hand of my mother resting in my hand. I want. I want. I want.