MONDAY MORNING by Nicole Barth [11/15/10]

If the mahogany cascade trickles down my back in the right way

and I end up planning my outfit the night before,

do you think I could will it to happen?

Could stretching my lungs until they

spontaneously combust as my shins begin to crack

on my way to the train station

will it to happen?

Or does he have to feel it churning in his gut

as he shrugs on his pitch black leather jacket

at six in the morning?

I wonder if the car grease

must choose to mingle

with his cereal bowl

so that the clock's arms

will align to our favor.

So that steel limousine can

push through the caliginosity

of its underground zip-line

and rope him into the same

container as me.

But today I'm guessing

the Spanish-speaking flirt that

reclines while bathed in sheets of silk

had plans for the the two of us.

Swirls of aged copper and lime peel

traced the contours of his burnt sienna eyes.

And I couldn't help it. Crimson paint coursed through

my veins and nestled into my cheeks.

The faint traces of after-shave and scented hair jell

wafted toward me as he sat down next to me,

slouching slightly in his customary cansado y relajado manner.

He yawned and slouched even more, but the smile that was slowly

tugging at the corner of his gentle lips told me all I needed to know.

Grogginess complicated verb conjugations in my mind as I stumbled

through Spanglitalianish in an effort to see him laugh.

The two of us were caught in a moment of silence,

eloquently cursing the perpetual Mondays in our heads

when he leaned against me.

And I could tell he wasn't about to blame it on

the man-shaped lard sitting next to him

or the jolting of the train car.

It didn't matter that speaking English

seemed like an impossible task to him this morning.

And it didn't matter that my vocabulary was muddled.

All I know is that the off-white tiles

of my stop could not have predicted this.

And no Monday morning has grinned this openly before.

“Quédate conmigo....No te vayas,” he murmured.