Remember how you would drink
from my wide mouth for hours,
as though philosophy were ambrosia
composed of coconuts and consonants?
Your lips were Babylonian springs.
You called me Jupiter, resolved to revolve
around me. I called you Pandora.
Your box sustained affectionate vowels.
We argued on what would descend first:
an angel with brooding eyes
or a feather on the wing that created it?
The answer was unimportant.
God was a sparrow then, alive because
He evolved it. Now, you are Catholic
with a husband and three children. You pray
for forgiveness. I pray for sun when it rains.
We still chase philosophy. Only it grows
into a somber bear with your sweet face, Pandora.
So I ask: are you the paws covering her ears
or the warm honey just out of reach?