Sarah Gibbon

What I Want from You

Sarah Gibbon
What I Want from You

It’s a small thing, really. It’s only

that I want to go camping with you--

to wake in the crisp early morning air staring

through the mesh tent window at the steam

rising off the mirror-water lake mingling with

the after-smoke of our fire and

my visible breath.

 

I want to lie tangled in limbs and blankets

smelling of wood-smoke and bodies

and old tent, your sleep-weighted arm

draped over me, your rib cage heaving

against me, my exposed face

frosted tight, the rest of me almost

unbearably hot.

 

Or, maybe it’s that I want

to paint a living room with you. Something plain like

Coastal Beige. To watch you reach for

the high spots, your tattered Led Zeppelin T-shirt

creeping up over your soft belly, your

sweat-heavy jeans hanging off

your hip-bones. A little concave place

in between.

 

I want to collapse cross-legged on the floor,

on the layer of weekly newspapers we spread out

to catch stray paint, a collage of show times and 

call girls I pretend not to notice, while I pull

the fine spatter of beige from my

arm-hairs and wait for you

to hand me a cold beer. Something cheap, like

Pabst Blue Ribbon. Or Milwaukie’s Best.

 

That’s all, my friend. Truly. Nothing more.