for d., in 2 parts.
part 1
angular. and turbine
the only way I could imagine describing how you looked
I at once sterile, imploding, racked with grotesque commitment, guilty elsewhere
if it was today: would you have noticed: would you have asked: would I have been awake for the whole thing:
part 11
you are one of the few I might ask for in my second life
if we could find our modern selves together in a room, at least to laugh at what has been
the warmth and sharpness of your tongue
the heaviness of my feet walking away from you twice
the old road on a cold December morning
bowling ball.
Everything about this is either frozen, or divine
And I changed my mind so many times for you
And I moved past your unconscious body, willing you not to wake
And I offered you what little I had
Everything about me, no longer
we don’t bite.
these hollows shaped like my fears the same: dense
these hollows, my fears the same: dense
these hollows and my fears at once: dense
brooding
over the shoulder of
an honest lover
dove-tail into
flood and fleece
wining and dining
looking into floor plans that are a bit too large
it could all be shit
or if i could’ve laid in the grass with you forever, that might’ve been it
don’t save it.
Heaven is now, my love
it’s 15 shades of green,
soothing my worn sight,
a cup of tea to hold and savor
it’s the sun and moon dancing above,
reluctant to depart from one another
it’s the silence, not only of the land,
but also in my spirit
it’s feeling my freckles absorb the warmth of autumn
and realizing that I’m just a visitor
in an elaborate ecosystem that nourishes and destroys
it’s the morning greeting of a baby tiger
resting against your leg in the shade
I no longer lie to myself: I will not be Happier later than I could be right now.
All I have to do is be here.
This is all there ever is.
1977.
I feel like I have very little to offer you - flexible hamstrings if you need a pair.
In this way, I’m forgetting that the magic washing over me, embalming me, expanding my senses when you smile and you speak - is the same that was in the room when my brother and I were born.
I will never tire from hunting that down in everyone I meet.
for e.
you say them so effortlessly
and I wonder what it was like for you to grow up
without a cage around your tongue.
your father strikes me as a man who raises his voice behind closed doors,
and yet maybe it was done with you and not toward you.
I’m concocting a story about you and him
because I lack experience from which to draw on.
change of states.
to the few people who have not taken advantage of my kindness: thank you.
I don’t remember you well enough to draw your face. at some point I stopped being able to distinguish between you and them.
I’m so happy I danced with you the last time we spoke. I’m so happy for all of the things I’ve felt. and I’m happy to be walking on a summer night, long after my bedtime, even though it means losing track of the people I once loved so fiercely.
a mountain of my own.
we stood in the doorway as I received from you a modern benediction
it eloquated of newness and restoration that has already anointed my head
twice I have heard this, twice you have brought me back into a church of sorts, where I know now that I began as whole, blameless and above reproach and the first thing that disjointed my limbs was the idea of a god who found it imperative that we give up our magic willingly over and over again in service of power hungry animals.
these were the ones who warned me of the night prowlers, all the while prowling at night, driving by my house and desperately supplicating, “please, please, god, for all things holy, don’t let her be gay!”
and despite the most earnest of efforts, I remain a mountain of my own, growing trees and flowers and burning away the stale flora of that ancient script.
for b.
I tried calling you by my high school nickname
as if a planned attack could impress your charisma onto my shoulders and back
as if you would be anything like you were promised to be
as if the prayers you offered up for me would be soft in the soil.
Once, at a time of day I can’t remember, I held your face with both my hands.
Has the intonation of your voice always been so young and wanting?
dreamscape.
i keep waking up with angry red burns on my stomach,
and I’m wondering how you’re able to sneak in at night and press them into my skin without waking me.
you’ve always been the type to grovel, but I didn’t think it would come to this,
a constant revenge
an ethereal reminder
a swelIing storm
untitled.
My best trait
is that I’m able to look into your eyes with all the confidence of someone being looked at for the first time
with all innocence and thou shall not be jealous and the un-existence of other.
I’m perpetually waiting to undress next to you, with you, close enough to you that some of your incomparable being might transmit to me.
Will I ever float on my own doubt?
Are any of the things you asked for want?
Rustling past locked doors of openly believing I could be yours.
I knew I could find you here, but I failed to anticipate that you would be more independent than me.
I’d bite your raw, upside down neck any day.
Your best trait
is that you’re able to tap into the side of me that would take the time to look into your eyes with all the confidence of someone being looked at for the last fucking time.
love letter.
why not decide to flourish now
when the skies are dark
when the humidity chokes
when the mind is speeding towards
whatever it takes to blow up your life
you can notice how tall you’ve grown and how bright your skin and the grace with which you extend each limb
and there is silence
