how we hold on

something about moving around the mountains
that rise up in the distances
as i pedal south, sun on face
feeling warmed and in motion and alive
the unnamed phenomenon of returning to
moving around each other in the kitchen
one of us washing, one of us putting dishes away
and the sharpness of my spatial memory
remembering where the glasses, plates, bowls, cups go
the plastic-wrapped plates
of homemade banana chocolate chip muffins
on the table
made for her neighbors who didn’t answer their doors
are you ever lonely out there
she asks
as i work my way through one of the muffins
turns out i can cozy up on the couch just fine
i note, laughing, when we discuss
my cuddling capabilities
the drips dropping from the gutter
slow and one by one
landing in the parsley growing
in a five gallon buket below
the scruffle of pigeons up in the gutters
as sunset approaches while i gather
kale and mizuna and cilantro
from rachel’s winter
desert garden
how, when we hug, we hold on
(in kitchens, in back yards, in patches of sun
sometimes standing next to our bicycles)
helicopter circling with its search light
grazing the ground as i bike
under an otherwise star-packed sky
down grande 
where i am lucky enough to have the cover of home,
the safety of documentation
hazel pushing half the energy bar towards me slowly
across the table while we tea-sip and laugh
expounding upon the quandries of niceness vs. excitement
with a little bit of attachment theory on the side