Only when sweat spatters
the thin blonde tips, can I spot it—
the coppered shine hitting the strands
just right, making them glow
like sun-smeared dandelions.
No walrus whiskers or penciled stash
could replicate the majesty
of that corn-colored constellation
sparkling on your upper lip.
Darling, your mustache is fresh-
dripped honey, a spool of golden yarn
a lasso pulling the two pink steers
of my lips in for a kiss.
And when I startle from a nightmare
it’s that crescent sliver of yellow moon
that helps guide me as I slowly sink
into the dark ocean of my dreams.
So please, I beg of you
don’t scrape away your lemon zest
don’t lawnmower that slim drizzle of fur—
let it surprise me right before I go to bed
like a taxi-cab bursting through
our bedroom wall. Let it grow, darling
like goldenrod in the warmth of July.
Jean-Luc is a Tucson based poet. He enjoys hot coffee and long bus rides.