Suppose a humid, tropic breath
could bloom a flower in your hand,
any injured, withered blossom
stained with sticky passion.

Suppose the same hot, sultry breeze
that blew when you slipped,
wet, from your mama’s womb
was the end of all violence on Earth.

Suppose the acrid vacuum of the moon
was a luscious garden of delight
and trees grew pink and yellow sherbet sundaes
instead of fruit

and when we put a record on the stereo
vivid rainbows poured from the speakers
instead of music
and suppose that there was peace
and unicorns
and suppose
(god-dammit)
that you loved me