Blueprints

Last night I slow-danced with my architect.
He held me close, sketched in the walls and doors
and how I wanted him, breathed in his scent,
measuring in the dark, in two-by-fours
feeling the width of floor. Here goes the bed,
broad mirror. What I want is not to scale —
bookcase, rug and table, a coat rack bent
with our clothes, inside out, defying all
Who said I wouldn’t ever make a home
of this, but warned the papered walls would peel
away or that dry rot would settle on
my doorstep, here a pile of broken beams.
Who could have questioned this, your best-laid plan
now rests in me — and I would build again.