naiad

I am a splash and gurgle, playful like a cool drink and it is all spring and wind through the reeds until you drown in me. I am all ripple, all ribbon hair leaking outward into a halo around my face. Drifting backward while you think I am smiling. And I will tell you to swim a little closer just to see you at the drop off, when the water is past your waist and you did not know the lake ran this deep. I have watched brave men sink like rocks and float like logs, watched them breathe fresh water and surrender. And they have thanked me before the end. You can build river rafts to ride me, can build ships and fleets and navies and try to calm my skin, but I will hurricane swallow you down. I am vast and dark and ancient. And I am not afraid of you.

I Suppose We're Growing Up

and all at once we are older than we realized
turning out the lights before midnight
to get some sleep, because we deserve it now
because we have been staying up all night for ages
and this year has been a hell of a long day

and all at once I find you where you have always been
next to my hand, and your fingers find my palm
and they walk into the space between my knuckles
and your voice is over my head like a crown
you are taking nothing from me

we have wiped our slates and our bloodstreams clean
we have made space in ourselves together
and this is what I will keep in my pocket tomorrow:
the blue darkness and the velvet of you
and your mending hands

Blood Moon

the moon is red tonight
and I am frightened

that I never learned to exhale pain and heal
that I swallowed all my bad memories like baby teeth
and chewed an ulcer through my stomach

and my fingers are still prune-wrinkled
after soaking for years in stagnant water
salted and bitter and rheumatic
and combing my hair still takes hours

I am frightened that mirrors will still burn
holes in me, that I still need to cloak them
in wine-heavy drapes past midnight

that when you try to stoke your breath into my lungs
they will fill with rose paint and I will choke
bleeding thick and poppy-scented
all perfumed panting, panicked

but I have forgotten that I am only
nightmare-locked tonight, and pruned fingers
are only relics of this time last year

and blood moons pass, and I have learned by now
to drop a thread of silver sunlight into my paralysis
and even when the night is scarlet black
even when it is easier to stay asleep

dawn will still break in its time
and I will still be awake by midday

The First Time I Told You

fingers stretching cold toward your flame
I have been the gray sky and the thunder
and you have been the rain
that lets the ground drink fresh water

and my fences were never iron
only aging wood and lattice work around flower beds
and you have found the hinge and the gate

I have been shaking frozen
all bare branches and sleeping for months
but you have hung tire swings in me
you have reminded me of spring

and we have made a singing silence
blanketing ourselves in rest
we have woven safety nets like hammocks

and I have been waiting all this time
to tell you how much
I love you

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