what will I want back? You in bed
close to me. I have been so hungry
with a hunger you have filled—

you feeding me like the ripe lychees
the birds gorged on that summer
in Costa Rica as we walked barefoot
with our children to the beach.

Red skins on the ground and the white, tender,
flesh-like fruit taken in the beaks of the big black birds with blue feathers
who dropped, when they were done, the smooth brown pits
of the fruit from the tree tops—those birds
whose names we never learned.

Your abdomen, your thighs,
your chest, your fingers, your mouth
that I touch, touch me

beyond all counting.