Spring

generations to come set to music not yet written
futures you could not imagine for yourself
curled against your bedroom door
you are weighted

possibility is fickle and eludes you
but you stretch your fingers anyway
searching for her hair, for solid things
on which to build your sand castle

there were always shadows
with every twitch of the clock's hands
new monsters have been born
and you have named each one

but there is light in you
your cataracts are too thick to see it
sleeping buds between knuckle bones
and weekends to rest, and stories

more stories than you can count
they will pour from your mouth
and from your hands and feet
you will become a love story

generations to come will graze your pages
as music plays, a melody you once sang
curled against your bedroom door
waiting for Spring to come

99.

music floats into my ears like the first breath of morning
tapping letters as if they were telegram keys
as if they could send hearts across oceans
and damn it all, yours is still the name on my lips
I am growing tired of the way it looks on paper
the consonants and vowels sitting too close
the way one must smile to pronounce it properly
the word sneers at me and I cannot erase it
I am old, old, old and I am running riverbed dry
at the mercy always of Time and Choice and Regret
have I wasted these months? these years?
have I waited? and what for?
my veins spread under my skin and I begin to fade
into blue and purple and green
disappearing limb by limb, changing
as nothing changes
thumbing through old pictures one more time
for pity's sake, I am pitiful
but heartbreak has worn me wiry and tough
I have been made into barbed fencing
keeping not evil out but life inside
I encircle fields of cattle and wildflowers within my bones
protecting newborn foals, refusing entry to vultures
I am old and I am tired and I am strong
I have built wooden posts to hold me up
they are hammered deep into the hard ground
and I have not yet been torn down
that old temptress Hope appears at  my side again
perhaps, perhaps, perhaps I will find fresh water
and it will wash your name from my mouth at last

98.

her coiling tendrils weave a net
and it catches me by the ankle
she is not what I expected

we have red dresses and checkered shirts
at this point I have lost track
of who wears what

I could not care less --
she shines through her clothes
either way, and I am sunbathing

she may not see the green
in my eyes or kiss me back,
but I am happy to stay

here where her meadow grows
with nets and snares
between the grasses

97.

my palms are cracked
and heavy with music
I have become a shade of myself
we are both to blame

we burned like ice
under my tongue and ripped
the tendons there, but
no one saw the blood

(in fairness, I swallowed it
for months -- no wonder
you were surprised
when I spat it at you)

I will resurrect and bury you
as many times as it takes
to wash these stains
from my sheets

there are open places
and loosing seams
I keep the memories there
where my skin is fraying

but the time has come
to sew up my skin
and pick out the pieces of you
I will send you down the drain

you will stay in the pipes
but I will be clean
and remade

Swallowing Swords

I bend like a contortionist
under your gaze. We could swing
higher than trapeze artists
and paint stripes on our tent skin –
one for every scar we peel off.

I fall in love fifty times
a day, and you are the one
I have chosen between these
two sunrises. I will create
a fire in us both, if you let me.
We could breathe it and juggle it,
and set hoops aflame
for lesser lovers to admire.

Let yourself crash into me.
Scratch me like a pen on paper –
write a curse on my skin.
Hurt me and make me
whole. Make me
yours. Take me in your
lion teeth and throw me
against the tamer’s chair. 

I would walk on hot embers
and swallow swords
if it would help you
see me
standing
here.

Games

So we have landed here, crouched side-by-side at the starting line, stealing hard glances at each other through our peripheral vision. We are opponents now. Our muscles will ache when we cross the finish line. Do you feel like you are faster when you see me break down? Do you win higher scores when you dance with girls in front of me? How do we decide the victor? Perhaps it is a matter of tears, and who has shed fewer. Or new lovers, and who has acquired more. I can see you flexing and preening across the track. I hear the stories you tell your friends about me. You have visions of me crumbling into dust without your crossbeams. You dream that I will erode under the gale winds and acid rain of my own psychoses. Would it be more satisfying for me to tell you that I am drowning? Would you feel more round, more tall? Would you smile more freely, imagining my grimaces? Perhaps it is time to set the record straight. When the starting shot blasts, I will not run. I have nothing to prove to you. You are not allowed to move my legs forward any longer. I will walk away from the stadium. I will breathe slowly and cleanly. The truth is that I am not trapped in a racing circle; I am free to come and go as I please. You will watch me as I turn from you. You will not understand why I am going. I will smile widely, not imagining your tears, but anticipating my own freedom. You may cry and laugh as you see fit. I will not watch you. I have other pages to write, other faces to touch, other dreams to realize. You can keep your games. I have better races to run.

Swimming Lessons

I could write a poem
about the smell of your hair, but
I have not smelled it yet
I imagine
it is something like
almond oil and rosemary
or perhaps autumn air

it is a relief
to look into your
eyes, like answers
for which I have
been searching

and there is a shade
of chestnut color that fills
my ears and nostrils, it radiates
from your ends and edges, and I
would need swimming lessons
to navigate the space
behind your eyelashes
without drowning

even if we never touch
lips or graze fingertips again
it will be breeze-fresh and cooling
to remember the sway
of your hair, and to imagine
how it might have smelled
against my skin