To Know Juan in all of His Forms

by Emily Vang

before I knew you, in our first conversation, you told me in between your clinquant laughter of course, that you nicknamed yourself dirt at summer camp. I can now see why – 

you are the nitrogen rich soil, rooting 

the dandelions that unfold like a canary’s wing, the wishing well abundant in the 

water glassing my irises with tears, 

the tree that exhales the oxygen rushing through the red of my capillaries, the 

snowflakes that keep giving, leaving specks of melting kisses over the bares of my body 

when your fingers entangle so naturally with mine, I can’t help but think of you as vines, flowering and running along my walls, like you’ve been planted next to my roots all along 

when you smile, I want to watch it over and over, like the sunset, the sunrise, the sun in the middle of June, exhilarating and bright, my gaze instinctively returns to your incandescence 

you are familiar, every beautiful thing about this earth, dirt and all, orcas wrapped in baby blue sheen, pine trees pointing to the stars, airbrushed rainbows after a violet storm 

I walk among the clouds, fields, seas, deserts, every corner searching for nature’s acknowledgment,

shouting my name, glistening in the sun for an 

imaginary God, anything to be noticed by nature 

yet, nothing makes me feel more known than resting in the ridge of your elbow, nestling in the crevice 

between your neck, memorizing the notes of your 

heartbeat’s liquid gold hymn under the covers 

I want to meet you for the first time again, under the shade of an acacia blooming, in between breaths on a snow covered hill, on my front porch illuminated by an orange sky; anywhere just to remind you that I know you 

tell me again how you named yourself dirt when you were twelve years old, do your golden crinkle laugh once more, and I’ll simply say I’ll know you, I know you, I’ve known you you’ve always been in everything, and now I finally have your name