If I hadn’t sold it for its gold,
I would give you the class ring I wore
when I was still a girl
and taking good care of my cuticles.

If it hadn’t burned in a fire,
I’d give you the Valentine
from my first kiss––
the boy who grew up

to become a preacher,
and a Canadian,
which seems like a contradiction.
I'm not sure why.

If I knew exactly where to find it
I’d give you the time capsule I buried
to open in a million years,
I’d shimmy it out of the earth,

and say, Here, I made this for you
when I was seven. Inside –– a lock
of my dog’s hair from before
he went to live on a farm

for biting the face off a man
who looked at me wrong.
If the tooth fairy hadn’t come
any of those times, I’d give you my smile
and say, You’re the reason why I'm gay,
and I mean that the old fashioned way
as in happy, but also
kind of, the other way too.

I would give you my name,
but I’d rather have yours
so when the telemarketers call
and say, With whom am I speaking?


I could say it aloud, the name
I was born with, but didn’t know
until the night I wiped the sweat off your arms
on a dance floor in Oakland,

then licked the salt off the length of my hands.
Do you understand how sick a person gets
licking the length their hands in a nightclub?
I didn’t leave the bathroom for seven days,

which is to say I’d give you my time,
my decades even. Don’t tell me to be less dramatic.
Of course I’ve loved before, but I didn’t
give it my all. Mostly I gave up.
You asks what makes this different.
Why I want to give it a whirl the size of a tornado?
Why I want to give it a go at every red light?
I just know you makes me feel

like I could win the lottery
with a parking ticket. I see your
lipstick on a coffee cup
and feel like I have never known a bruise.

And I want to give it my best,
and I want my best to be incredible
because people take me serious,
but I know I am a joke


you will always get,
your laughter so holy, the hecklers
tell me I’m coming up short and I say, great,
now I can win the limbo contest.

I want to give you all my trophies
from the county fair
where I won the potato sack race,
and the poetry slam
where I was the runner-up behind a man
who wrote a love poem
for pudding
(that would be the sweetest gift).

When you’re down I want to give you my best
pick up lines. What’s your sign?
My sign has historically been STOP
but since meeting you I’ve changed it

to MERGE.
Darling, when I gave you my heart,
I gave my life my word
that it would not be the same heart

I had given before.
I put in, like, a hundred more doors
and a record player from a real record store

and I put in a skylight that is all yours

that day you picked me up and carried me
through that airport
like my goodbye had no weight.
My goodbye has no weight.

Right now you are sleeping beside me
making a face you would not want
to know you’re making. Call it the opposite
of your mirror face. Call it me bringing home the gold.

Call these bed sheets what was sewn

from the ribbon at the end of a long race.
I don’t want to be anywhere but here
whispering all your nicknames

from every hiding place until I give myself away:
Hey Galaxy, Hey Lord of the Butterflies,
Hey Grief Thief, Hey Windchime,

Hey Adorable Sneezer,
Hey Perfect S’more, Hey LifeBoat, Hey Lifeboat,
I’m yours.