we stood in the light of five thousand stars
the electric hum of the Milky Way, our song
i placed your hands, flat, between mine–as if to pray
four hands, stronger than two.
you spoke a secret word–
it had no form, no syllables,
yet i understood:
the mystery of love is not
what it is;
rather, how
we ever
let it go.
Not that long ago,
the best part
of the work day
was the removal
of the mask.
There was no more fiddling and adjusting
or inhaling of stray fibers.
Gone was the agonizing beard itch
and the ears could sound their sigh of relief.
Oxygen became a gaseous delicacy.
But over time, that eleven hour stretch
has lost the punch it used to pack.
The mask is one with me now,
sometimes going unnoticed
as if it never intends to come back off.
Grey
breaks through
the
blue,
a storm
is coming
again.
It’s here
with
it’s
rolling clouds
and
booming thunder,
I never
see it
coming.
I’m trapped
under
the downpour,
rain puddles
form
at
my feet,
I’m drowning.
All consuming
is
the storm,
unstoppable
is it’s
influence.
This storm
is
just as
painful
as
the others
were,
but this
time
I am
not
in
the storm,
I am
the storm.
Metallic shimmer
gleaming iridescent shell,
Fibonacci gyre
Captures, cathartic
embers, wandering among
gossamer currents
Emotional fire
scorched her internal landscape
of oppressions chains
Rising vibrations
unleashed firebird, igniting
her transformation
Painted a false patina, I am die-cut
perfection, home improvement
store $9.99 turned yard sale
50¢ box. When the door slam wind
rocks me once or twice on this nail,
I make a thin rattle. You smile at me
go fuck yourself
Keeper of Plums,
bogarting their sweetness
for your own tongue
and all the tongues
that look like your tongue
while so many others
feast on twigs for dessert,
their mouths sharp
with splinters, and goddamn
there are so many plums
in your ice chest,
so ripe and so cold,
enough for everyone.
I came here
for a picture
of a pastel, sun-dressed city,
delicate porcelain blue sky.
But I am here,
and there is metal gray pressing above
and the green tinge of algae and
old water below.
But I teeter across planks
and splash through thin puddles over
marble.
I stare down as my hair drips,
wavering rings in the water.
Water seeps in my boots
but I decide to let it
and move on.
There will be sun elsewhere.
(I was reading Thucydides, The History of
the Peloponnesian Wars. After I had come
upon the term the third time, I stopped and
found a lengthy history and analysis in
Wikipedia of the word “hoplite.” Of course,
I had known that they were Greek
“soldiers,” “like the Romans.…”)
Aspersion and Judgment
Like hoplite brothers
We field scorn and slashing
Like wheat scythed down
Hardmuscled, final change
In the last turn of hours
The breath on the cuttings
Then dry wisps of age
Old hair and philosophers
The sun on God’s shoulders
Baked, formless clay land
The grooves in the ground become
shadow
Gone in the wind a promise
Seeds that would be a kingdom
Words that no longer matter
I can’t help but to
think back to one
of my last in-person classes.
We closed our eyes and
imagined what it would be like
to run towards our goals
like a wild animal.
Looking back at what
I wrote then
makes it so clear to me
just how different
the world felt to me
even just a few months ago.
If I were to sit down
and repeat that same exercise,
I can’t help but wonder
if my steps would be
wild and desperate
or weary and tired
with the weight
of the ignorance of others.
i started sleeping on your side of the bed
until i noticed
that the whole bed is mine.
the clean sheets, open windows,
fresh air, incense smoke,
the strong spine and weak arms,
left side, right side, smack in the middle:
holy and personal
and mine.
