Life-sized
phallus carved from block of milk chocolate, wrapped in red tin foil
with a note that read, “eat me.”
Garlic when I had a cold, to boost my immunity and freshen my blood.
Handmade sterling pyramid pendant with a blue stone in the center like
an Egyptian eye, made by a guy who had never made jewelry before.
Vintage erotic postcard from our trip to Amsterdam, with stereoscopic
lenses built in that make the bawdy picture appear 3-dimensional.
Rose (twisted from palm fronds on the streets of Puerto Rico).
Massages, always begun innocently.
Being read a children’s story in a bath by candlelight, my head
resting on his chest.
Hickeys, bruises of love.
Love letters from Germany written in poor english, sealed in black wax,
from the 16-year old who helped my hair get tangled with leaves and
sticks and dirt in a shadowy park on my summer vacation.
Crystal pendant my young lover left in my bed, that I found after he
had died in a drug-related car crash. He was 13.
Bottle of Dom Perignon for my birthday in Japan from a boy 8 years my
junior, missing his front tooth, who I adore.
Orgasm or two, creatively and patiently arrived at.
Portable, folding wooden medicine box with fifty drawers for herbs,
sent from Korea.
Lunch in Paris, with a view of a young man juggling fire outside the
Notre Dame Cathedral.
Herbal foot massage at a Tokyo wellness boutique by a meticulous woman
who made it feel like a tea ceremony.
Baggie filled with magical herbs to keep under my driver’s seat,
for safety.
Antique, golden Buddha in a tryptich box that opens and closes.
Curried sweet potato and tofu soup left on my doorstep, for no reason,
hearty and delicious on a hectic winter day.
Wedding vow, twelve years and counting.
Tour of Florence with copious kissing.
Crown cut from Coca-Cola cans, its sections held together with brads.
A silver ring he’s had since he was 14 and I was 22, long before
we met, that he said he’d never let any woman wear, other than
me.
Cassette with mixes of his voice singing “I love you” on
different tracks, sent to me in Europe.
My body, sketched nude, on a large canvas, with a poem beneath.
Glitter and bits of gold string in my hair.
Armfuls of groceries brought to my door unexpectedly, to make me a surprise
meal: toasted buttery croissants topped with goat cheese and a mix of
apples, avocadoes, and shredded carrots sprinkled with honey and lemon
juice. Mmmm.
Tiny perfume bottle filled with paper circles from a hole puncher –
on each circle, the words “I’m sorry” barely legible
and impossibly small.
Miniature diamond ring when I was 10, bought at the International Market
Place in Waikiki by the 18-year old millionaire’s son from Morocco
who asked me to marry him.
Dreadlock from a friend who is now dead, to whom I dedicated a poem.
Self-portrait of a lover’s face, the lines of which were drawn
with the microscopic words of a love letter to me that started at his
temple and traveled to his hair, his eye, and so on. For Valentine’s
Day.
Love note that reads, “You are at my very center, my core,”
wrapped around the body of the smallest hand-painted nesting doll, at
the center of all the other, larger dolls.