by Jean-Luc Fontaine

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.