Monday, July 8, 2013

sans luggage


you travel light
i know

but all i have came to me through someone else
and there must have been something here
that was meant to pass to you.

you are so wary of taking on weight
and gifts can be heavy
but mine would have been as light as the blessing
you left on my pillow, and as free
and probably longer-lived.

i know you know that belongings are transient
the very stuff of our bodies borrowed
like our time, borrowed against Death
and our love, on loan from God (surely its true owner).
i would not have begrudged you mine
not as a contract
as a talisman

but i know
you travel light.


Wednesday, May 22, 2013

moving day

how quickly you have become my home
how soon i have learned your scent
like a child or an abandoned puppy.

and how quickly i have begun to construct
a shelter around you
a shelter of you.

how often already i have wished
for a stronger arm, a stronger soul
to bring to bear on those stubborn pains
which i hope you are ready to leave behind
because they are taking up space in the rooms
of my new home, and i am a great thrower-away
of things no longer needed.

Thursday, May 2, 2013

secretly enjoyed

8. Being rejected. It gives me a chance to practice my generosity: my overtures weren’t accepted but maybe the very offering was a needed gift. And would I begrudge that, even to someone who doesn’t know how to decline gracefully, how to navigate the weird, tidally-complex waters between greed (for affection, for being wanted, for love) and self-denial (for the sake of the wished-for One who hasn’t yet arrived on-scene)? I wouldn’t: people are hungry; they sometimes can’t help but take the nourishment from your hands and then run. Give it, if you want to avoid having it stolen.
Read: Thought Catalog.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

delivery

i had hoped to mail you something, some small token
in payment on the debt, some small proof that i was
what you were looking for, but in the end this was all
i could think of to send to you that meant neither more
nor less than i intended it to. in case you can't tell,
it is what it looks like. a small piece of cardiac muscle
no more, no less, sorry about the mess in the envelope
and the jagged cut, i'm unskilled at this kind of scalpelry.
the symbolism of words has failed me but at least
there is always recourse to the literal.
take it, another little piece
take it, it is my body
take it and eat it
as you would the heart of a fallen enemy
or that of a lion killed in a battle you never meant to happen.
 

Monday, April 15, 2013

seeds


we could
we could, you know
we could grow up together
we could have jobs
     apartments, fights, a dog, a house
     children (tall, black-haired)

we could grow content, grow rich or fat or complacent
     or wise, maybe
we could be time travelers together, cosmonauts
     inside aging bodies, but never deceived
     by the disguises of midlife

i could remember your first surprised smile
     under my lips; you could remember my body
     first coming to rest beside yours

we could grow old
     the film in our eyes hiding (kindly) the strange illusions
     time wove around us
we could know each other then by feel, by scent and warmth
like children

we could start now
we could



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[buy this on archival letterpress at Architrave Press, Edition 4]




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Saturday, September 1, 2012

daybreak

[...]

i cannot help
but feel you’ve given me the chance to bury my dead
mass my last troops and gather my final strength
so that your victory may be absolute. but mine is
a guerilla war

[...]
Read: Underground Voices, September 2012 [direct link]


Monday, August 20, 2012

harvest weather


i have eaten
six perfect peaches this season
this summer that i met you.

that's five more
than are possible in one summer
and it's august yet.

will you also bring
wild, lush grapevines in december
sweet corn in march?

stay
show me
and stay.