Home Plate, Unsure Of The Order Of The Bases Poem by Delilah Miller

This is a moment
I've dug out of you.
Shining blue,
the shade of pale neon
of whitened teeth,
your eyes are naturally...
Brown.
It doesn't matter to me.

Your skin reflects all the bracelets
I'm jingling with,
sounding an insane gypsy dance.
My family learned the steps before gold jewelry,
and somehow kept it around.
Ancestors, I'm grateful,
if only for this man's twisted grin
on his carmine lips;
the challenge settles down
and festers.

So many times, sitting across your lap,
I've struck at you,
with similar eyes turned blue,
a pick axe jabbing
into a sunny California river stone.
This moment has a gem to offer me,
My breathy tone hits again;
I only have one more step,
one more dig,
my pink lips to your carmine.

But I'm so far away from home,
where I struck gold
with random facts,
closed-mouth smiles
and my photographic memory.
With all this history sitting on your lap,
you manage to say,
'I hate the sound of bangles.'
The delivery was accompanied by
a glorious sneer.
My sigh was the sound of hundreds of years
stretching and failing.