// Without Speaking //

If the words do not come
it can be very hard
to find my own feet, to recognize
my own reflection.

I do not think you
understand this struggle, the terror of this fog,
even when I am trying to speak
about it
because it is not something
which can be spoken
with words.

There are tremors a heart can only beat.

There are words a soul
can only be made of
and not release.

How wrenching it is
to stand before you
with this bouquet in my hands
you will never see.

.

.

// Sorrow In the Eyes of Them //

Would you let me take you by
the hold of both hands,
by the moonlight falling
clear through two expectant eyes.

May I touch you here
in the dark, two lips heartstained.
Where what stings melts its pain into summer.
Where all that crawls crippled within

turns on its side
and opens its mouth
again
for sun.

.

.

// (Dis)Obedience //

We wait
we are so very pretty
in our waiting.

Cross your fingers,

hold your breath,

remove your

eyes.

There is a gnawing in my cheeks which
never stops, it is keeping sound
with the rippling in my
water glass, it is
waiting for the other

shoe to drop.

And as the sky turns to blood
and trickles down the insides
of my thighs like
sandpaper before the wallpaint
even dries,
we do believe

what we are told.

Sitting for portraits,
sitting for decades, sitting for
no one.

We are so very pretty
growing old.

.

.

 

// Thoughts In the Floorboards Underneath My Bed with Monsters //

This is the space I hold and release between us. It is old and broken wood,
the smell of dark cherries and wine.

Fear from me
is separate,
of joy and sorrow,
I am twice removed.

A round room encircles
a cage which encircles
two birds as they are made to
adapt.

Blind is not blind in the way you listen, from the heart.
The seed contains the tree.

No eyes. Look here: no hands.

You track mud across
my mind
and I have come forward alone

to plant
and grow clouds among the weeds.

Still shine.

What worlds you open into that look in your eyes,
hand over hands held in mine.

We walk through rivers made of streets
moving, windspans underneath the wings
of concrete and glass, shattered collisions
glistenwhite in flight.

Warm blanketing creased faces;
all creatures aware of the dark

will turn themselves

to light.

.

.

 

// Mad Blue Sky //

I just wanted to finger my
way inside the light,
slow thread into capture, press my new
legs aside the sweetness of the
lilac balm
of night.
Breathe in the fleshflower
on the breast of
new life.

Fresh and wet rush the veins
of a deadened universe.
Thirsty neck of holy water,
pleasurepain of erotica
drowning in
fair tenderskin.

Forbidden. Invitation. Permission.

Palms dripping wild of fruit.
Wingbeats,
everstrong.
Descend with me here in small butterflies,
a breeze falls open upon the cradled hands
of one last time

I come alive
and the swallow of the mad blue sky
catches fire
in your eyes.

.

.

// After the Dance //

After the dance
at the foot of the sun
there is a sadness
twisting inside.
It is a pale scarf tied to
the bedpost.
It is sitting graypain
by the window petalsnow
as we dress.
We do not
speak it.

.

.

// Signals //

I have lit a candle
(Every night this summer)

placed it on the window

of the dark – I thought

 

just in case maybe

we got some

thing

crossed, if by chance

my distortions

read your mindsymbols

wrong.

~

(Street lamps flicker at the end

of my road. Holograms. Lacerations.

The distance between stars

as

measured by our hands.)

~

I am usually much

more clever, better put

together,

it’s just that time

has fallen so quiet

all over inside

since you are gone.

.

.

// Every Last Drop //

And I know I’m placing my heart in your mouth and tasting my tears in your eyes, and I know these fingers have no idea why the pain reaches out for healing. Why you like the way I look when I look away. Perhaps in the slender tipping of my shoulders I am an apology you’ve waited for your whole life, the one you cried for which never came. How we cling to forbidden things, my somber love, how we cling.

If you press your listening you may open your fear to things you never thought you’d like to try. Such is your curiosity. Such is the bend of a bloodflower in the dark corner of an empty room. How may I meet this need in you, how would your desire change if we only burn a little light, keep the bedfeathers and the softness of our dreaming dim.

This is the whole of my hunger and thirst, my madness and search, for every last drop of the secrets you keep folded inside the mouth. This is my longing crawling forever on her knees at your side.

This is why I adore the rainy days and give worship for the clouds which hover and divide themselves in endless violent circles. The brutal sun, the cruelty of light, the light is too loud and I seek the solace of the weight of this heavygray. As the shadowy figures of past lovers in my mind grow ever more beautiful and strange, I touch your chin with my fingers and we begin the falling into dust, soaked of the gladness in our hearts for the ridding of the selves we once carried in chains around our necks.

This is the cutting of the ties that bind, the world waits silent behind the blinds.

Together finally: you and I, taking the shape of the poisonous things we thought we’d left so far behind.

.

.

// Love Is On the Drinking Cup //

It is not enough, is it, even if I could turn these wallshadows

into fruit, even if my body were the dark burst of blackberries between your tongue

and your enemy’s teeth, stain the bed sheets with your

lips.

Even if the way I touch you riddles the sunlight across the window; little flashes burn through the fog around your cheeks

the way we feed each other on this thin selection of time,

is this your breath I pull across my mouth, is this the rib I borrowed from the birds you hold in your hands (one is sorrow, one is freedom).

It is always you, you inside me as I

write what hangs from the trees in dreams. Who am I to hope for anything when the world is on fire. Who will they send for us if we do not emerge again. Love is on the drinking cup, love is on the fountain top, love is the bottom of roses gummed to shoes.

Take me with you into the familiar warmth, take me back to the way it was before, when I told the truth and you would believe me.  You

wanted to believe

me.

Now it’s only the green mornings they tell me I should smile upon; they keep telling me not to blink, throwing hurricanes against my eyes, and raise my useful hands

up to the sky

(but it is hard because she’s falling

as I am falling, and we

can’t seem to touch)

and I’m so tired, there’s never much good in telling a thing when you are very tired. It feels so smooth and good to slide my fingers across these keys like a child digging in the dirt with spoons.

I remember digging: bending silver spoons in the soiled mouth of the mud. Fresh dirt upon the worms upon the smell of springtime, that was fragrance, that was mood.

The ivory scent of lilies-of-the-valley running along a chain linked fence, blacktop seething the coming summer rain.

Everybody wants to be so heavy, so full of metal skyline and mysterious things. What is that worth to you? Where is it getting you to summon up the truth?

The hair on your head still itches.

The gums you hold together in your jaw still bleed.

.

.