I will be the tree he will climb someday

I am the tree he is going to climb someday
until then I will imagine the tiny nymphs by
nymphs that I bleach straight down the drain
of my mother's kitchen sink and I will plant
a many-fruit tree.

Every year I'll graft on a new species, the one
sweeter than the next. Or maybe I will stick
to all types of apples? The matter isn't the
flavor, though. It is the preoccupation of
my need to grow something. I don't very much
feel like waiting until he gets back from the
frozen himalayan polyandrous society where he
kissed the goat herding, pink breasted asian
princess who remained celibate for as long as
he desired.

And I will meet a Greg or a Stanley who will
build a great, multi-purpose, plastic, wooden,
and steel ladder that he will climb up and his
sweat glands will inspire my tears, crying for
the sake of crying because I haven't cried all
year and it is overdue. And that Greg or Stanley
or Stu will pluck those just ripened fruits and
he will take far too much time mincing those fruits
and tossing them into a salad in a blown-glass bowl
but I won't eat.

And after hours of taking my hand and singing to me
that he needs me and that my woeful complacency must
sincerely mean he isn't worth me. In fact, he isn't
worth anything. And I will assure him, babe, that that
truly isn't it. He is a champion. A javelin that children
will aspire to be from age three. A modern firefighter in
a suit of armour. From then on I will cut open my own
avocados and he will lay in bed with books that read like
insipid coffee. I will tell him I want his children and
we both know it's a lie.

But this lie is our lie. It is my lie and it is a better lie
than continuing to orgasm over the idea of my knots and branches
cold to his touch, calloused by the salt water and moments--
sundials worn out over the time he has been gone. I suppose
I can thank Penelope, my sister in this stagnancy. Without her
I am sure I would have forgotten what the difference was between
cold and warm wash.