calluses out of dereflection

Guilt is the thing with barbed thorns.
I long for the day when I’m past it.
When I can unhook its grip from
my hot flesh and there’s enough
blood left in me to love once again.
I carry it on me like culture or
secrets. The weight of it something
akin to skin. On my proudest mornings
I thank it. Bowing to the lessons
of my past like a temple in prayer.
Some noons I’m certain I’m beyond it,
flush with the warmth of new truths
ringing plain in my ears. But, at night,
I know it will always come clawing
from that place of same pure surrender
I once trusted to you.

There is one thing I have never had,
Something I am dying to try.

I see them spinning, glistening.
I inhale their sweet fragrance.

One thing I have never had.
One thing I am dying to try.

Spinning, glistening
and oh that smell!

But fear holds me back.
Good sense holds me back.

Spinning, spinning, spinning.
Glistening, glistening.

Spinning, spinning, spinning.
Oh, that smell!

There is one thing I will never have.
One thing I will never try.

You hear that Elon
Wants to fight Mark Zuckerberg?
I hope they both lose, 
Nostrils leaking grey matter.
Two billionaires – TKO. 

We won’t be making love tonight.

Against the backdrop of Whitney Houston,
the young & the old twirl & twirl & catch
each other in their arms; too-long hugs & yelled greetings
signal the night’s future for these unknown couples—-
who among us are in love?

Children tucked into bed & the music finally turned down low,
the loving will commence: scattered clothes & lips
to skin, heat & hair, moans between silence

I used to count upon the person beside me
to love me in that way, to pull me in,
stare into my eyes, finally whisper I love you
after deciding to leave;

but that was never love, that love-making.

For months, I watched others forge new partners
with whom their sex was more than casual so that every time
I touch another’s lips with my own,
I see nothing but the bodies of their truer lovers
pressed against theirs: a reminder that I am a vessel for others to find love,

a carapace to fill a hunger until someone perfect
welcomes them into their arms & they make love…

Driving, I pass a long row,
then a field of luscious wildflowers
in yellow & violet & blue & red & orange
against the backdrop of light green grass:
I hope that there are bees there, pollinating
& mating & loving the Earth, & I hear them whisper
no, you won’t be making love, tonight

You introduced me to ease
with the utmost patience
With hands that used to punch walls
just to make harder knuckles
Yet here I am, buttered to the gills
Saying yes each time I’m asked

i wonder
why you didn’t sign up this year.

maybe you didn’t want to read
what we had to say about you.
couldn’t handle the thought that
we might say something about you

and it might be true.

maybe you didn’t want to have to pretend again,
write more poems about superficial nothing
so that none of us can know how you’re doing.

maybe you don’t want to be reminded of us,
or the person you were to us.
the things you said,
the feelings you left us with.
the aftermath of the damage you caused
then walked away from.

or maybe you just forgot this year.
after all,
i heard that you think you have adhd now.
though, i wonder
if you could say that to my face. 
the thought of watching those words
drip off your tongue
like poison,
watching the expression on your face
beg for my pity
fills me with rage unlike any i’ve known before.
how many years did you spend
misunderstanding me,
only for you to claim my disorder for yourself
once you began to believe that there was something
wrong with you?

but then i wonder,
how could i blame you?
if i was a narcissist
i would wish it was adhd, too.

so maybe you forgot to sign up this year.
but probably not.

i wonder,
did we take away a safe space for you?
the same way you unapologetically made every space unsafe for us?
i wonder how that feels.

i wonder.

Between win and lose,
Opposites confuse their view;
Judges get to choose. 

 (“I can crush it, but that doesn’t deny its existence.” — n.j.t., 1966)    

Marriages are made in Hell,
she said, lighting the cup,
and divorces in Heaven,
dropping hairs of hers
on the burning cup with
a man drawn on it.  

The cup a burnt shell,
the hair slightly singed.
That has deep significance,
she said, blowing the burnt match to the air.
Everything comes to an end
when there’s nothing for the fire to feed on.

My best day, said Rock, was the day a child
said “What a good rock,” and picked me up,
and held me, and hurled me across the playground.

My best day, said Paper, was the day a bride
and groom printed their wedding brochure on me,
and held me, and took their picture with me.

My best day, said Scissors, was the day they
sharpened my blades on a rock and handed me
to a child, to cut paper. I can still hear the ripriprip.