Some Way to Detach

I am struck by my tendency to start poems with

"I" or "you" or something self-conscious or other

and the ego, always the ego

sculpting worlds small enough to post on spindles

just to whirl them around our fingers

and look how far we've traveled

look how much we know

surely there is some way to detach

I make things too personal and I forget

that seasons turn and death sweeps in like autumn

surely there is some way to remember

that fabricated spirituality is only a distraction

from the God glowing in each of our skins

and we can only find it when we hold each other's hands

but really hold them, and listen

to the way our pulses harmonize

but it takes time, time

and a constant reminder 

and most days I cultivate my cynicism with pride and care

mouth dripping with venom, surveying everything

like I am about to buy or sell it

I should not be this narrow

surely there is some way to detach

I make things too personal and I forget

that tides go out and continents shift over time

surely there is some way to remember

that I am not my failure

that you are not my disapproval of you

I am so tired of forgetting how

we are all holy light

draped in fear's clothing but still pulsing underneath

still patient and brave and untempered

surely there is some way

to learn that

again

Your Collected Works

I am falling asleep to the sound of you
pictures of your face bathed in sepia, folded at the edges
running slides on a projection reel as I close my eyes
and when I wake in sheets that smell like you
all that is left is a love note on the bedside table

this is my writing song
sung for you when my mouth runs dry
and I am nothing but moving fingers

know that I will keep every letter you leave for me
know that I have made a book of them already

You Are Kind, But You Are Young

you formed me with feather-soft hands

palms warm and working the clay into something you saw in me

some smallish candle gleam that you washed over my skin

waiting for me to become the lover you dreamed of

but not the lover I would have been (had I loved you)

I have no interest in letting you paint me by numbers

and fill in my dark spaces with washes of watercolor 

what you loved was only ever a sculpture you created in my image

and I was never marble-strong to begin with

you are kind, but you are young

you have not yet learned that rough edges make soft beds

that sometimes broken arms are the ones that can hold you best

so take your time finding out

what love looks like under covers, warm and blended

less like pressed flowers and more like soil

and I will spend my days in the arms of someone

who already knows what I really look like

Unlace

I have tied too many ribbons to my ribcage
spending my nights pulling bows into knots
and interlacing lovers into my bones
until I was all string and no substance
I have sacrificed myself on altars of my own making
giving away everything, taking too much in return
and I have been all desperation and waiting
for someone to see me crying
just so they could help me stop

I have put pressure on points that were too sore
to hold the weight of my expectations
but I am ready to start untangling the snarl in my chest
to stop painting fictional saviors inside my eyelids
and keeping them shut tightly enough
to block out the sunlight

I am ready to unlace the streamers from my breast
and mend my bones before asking
anything of you

Some Nights (Still)

burrs still sticking to my skin, I am trying
I am trying, I am trying
to move forward

some nights I still taste like
boxed wine and lamplight at 4 am
some nights I am still twelve months ago

some nights I am still wading
through the translucent gauze of nostalgia
peeling its layers from my shoulders
or pulling its blindfold from my eyes

and some nights I am still waiting
for the cracks in my ribs to stop scraping
against my lungs when I inhale
still holding my breath
and counting to ten
hoping the pain will have gone this time

I am barbed-wire tethered
but I am struggling against my own fences
because some mornings
there is a gray light dawning behind my eyes
and I am trying, I am trying

I am trying to pluck the sharp grass from my mouth
to fill it with cool water instead
or enough air to tell you

that I want to be more than just
a ledger of goodbyes and failed attempts
that I don't want to be last year anymore

some nights I want to taste
less cigarettes and more spearmint
less like the blood from my bitten tongue
and more like the way it is healing

some nights I am trying,
I am trying.