Gemstone

Honey, lover, mate, you are the shotglass of Schnapps,
the tone of my tenor saxophone, the fir cone hanging
from my tree limb, the drop zone when I implode

and need a home to come home to. Hormone to hormone
let’s not postpone our skin-to-skin lingering
in the mack zone, jawbone to jawbone. Enough

of making invisible music with our smiles
and fighting over Thanksgiving wishbones as if
the whetstone of love depended on the luck-crack-

snap of a turkey bone. You wing me, spider me,
hoof me, claw with your muscle tone, and your
hip bone headshake that simmers and bakes me

calf bone to neck bone—no funny bone about it.
Dash me with a paintbrush, flat, filbert, bright
or fan, any color that love might intone. Let the bluestone

redstone, brownstone infuse the ozone. No use
holding this coffee cup any longer searching
the rhyme zone with my deep baritone.

The plants can wait. The dishes wait. The dog
wait on his own, alone. Feel the moan
of our cyclone. We’re in the torrid zone.