Maybe, in another time and place,
we could have jitterbugged, slip-hopping
around in our socks, and had three kids.
Maybe, on the moon, you would’ve
sat on my porch and peeled potatoes
with my mother, or brought me chocolates.
And maybe, in a yesterday buried in sand,
you would have strode into my father’s village,
blazing stripes like sunset on the river
pawing your cheeks,
a feast, a warm hut, and thirty spears kept ready
just for me.
And maybe, tomorrow,
we’ll coexist in thatched harmony
along the river,
gyrate ecstatically around our fire
in chocolate socks
to the moon.