you are icarus in the morning,
a vast and velveteen creature
shot through with sticks and feathers.
fallen in early dawn light, you are gold
and growing cold, the gilt of new day
making dust grow upon your brow.
those hunters, with those fierce cries,
have wounded you now, sweetheart.
though you are full of arrows,
you have also swallowed sunlight,
which now shines through you,
and goes into me.
shed those heavy antlers,
finely wrought though they are.
die with the taste of new day in your mouth,
with the fresh scent of spring and of berries
on your lifeless tongue.
you are icarus in the morning,
"Travel makes one modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world."
the ocean confuses me now,
for it is all dark lines of waves upon the sand,
each fresh line an archaic and lost language to me.
you were a shell I held to myself,
that whispered me the secrets of the sea.
Now, you’ve left little besides surf and dulled glass.
Only your breathing lingers on,
in the depths of a conch,
where the song of the tides was sung
until it was replaced with something more profound.
use your map of the currents to come home to me.
elsewise, could you extinguish the melody of your lungs?
it lives loudly in the quiet of my room.
I haven’t been able to write a single thing for months. No poems or anything else. This is my longest period of silence and I’m not sure what’s going on with me. I even have these two or three amorphous ideas in my head about potential poems but I can’t do anything with them; I’ve tried but I just can’t. I’m confused by this…????
midsummer feels like death to me.
this heaviness, this limp way of watching the sun rise
and then fall again, away from us.
doldrums have left the sails of my heart lank,
and my blood feels thick and tired.
I ache with missing you.
But the wound comes from the idea that you,
you live beyond this summer dull stretch,
that you hardly notice your pulse, as I do.
That you probably watched me with the same apathy,
as I did the sun.
I want to be the moon, that pulls you closer.
But you have action in your veins and I
have only the lingering heat waves of May
and the taste of you on my tongue
to hold me over to the winter,
where maybe I’ll forget and then live again.
and then you
and then, oh yes,
You, you, you, you, you.
Will it always be you?
It’s you again.
i haven’t been able to write for three weeks, or something like that. ugh.
I won’t survive you.
that mind I live in
cannot weather the storm
that your mouth brings
when it touches mine.
I won’t fight the waves
when they consume me,
sloshing over my defenses, hungry.
for your eyes sap the will
to batter myself against them.
if you have goodness
(and you must for I only love the good)
then you will leave me to
float on, and live,
though I will drown in banality
without you to buoy me up.
I need your killing tempest
in order to want to live.
worth is not measured in longevity
so telling me that the truest love story
"is one that never ends"
cannot be true.
what is divine in the human life
is the fleeting, the ephemeral, the glancing.
we are parted by life or by death
but nothing lasts;
it is the fear of the end that is a loss,
for engaging it
allows fear to win.
nothing lasts, hold fast to that.
but dream short, glowing dreams
in the moments that you can.
I want a rumpled sheets sort of life,
that gorgeous, filmy mussed world
that breathes of so much fresh cotton
and cold tile floors. That has windows
full of only morning light, and dew as the
only beading that can be seen at night.
something salty and sea-stained
and weathered and worn, that might
fit me like the shirts of the first boy
that I ever loved, the shirts I wore for
a full summer and then for one more.
there is life that is all wooden siding on
beach houses and white, warm milk
in chipped porcelain jugs, where lavender
hangs above the windows at night
to dry by the sound of the soft waves.
the rough, brown bread life where the sun
and the moon are your time keepers.
I want this life, with these things.
and I want it with you.
To be the drying line, against a single, crisp sky,
is to be a dying thing, bereft of a sole cry
I’ve held you, starched and wondering
as a fluttered, captured thing,
but how can I free you, when you only speak this lie?
and you, shooting through space
like a celestial seraph,
you fell in love with a young girl
when you were young as well.
and now you’ve suddenly woken up,
hurtling towards twenty two years old,
frightened and groggy, long had you slept.
everybody knows that this ends one of two ways:
separation by death or by dwindling.
there is no shame in extinguishment,
no glory in one finale versus the other.
the shame arises when you cannot recognize
that the choice is at hand.
you grew up with sticky palms and an already wounded heart,
some secrets from whispered arguments had spilled into your young eyes.
after playing flower girl at a rained out wedding
you pressed your hand to the glass and told your mother that you
"didn’t want to get married, not even to a prince."
and though you are slightly older now, and the hurt in your smile
doesn’t shine out with strangeness like a white sun at night,
you seem old when you tell your first love that you’ll never wear his ring.
don’t whisper in the garden to this girl,
that one day she’ll meet a man who wants this so much,
wants her name to be his and her yes to be said,
that she’ll nod her head and walk an aisle and say a prayer
for him, if not for herself.
not all souls are meant to be tethered.
don’t tell me that her’s won’t stay free.
I have seen people moving around
with little houses in their chests, building
tiny rafters, small attics, quiet windows
with their bones and their skin.
and though you may stay forever
or forever leave tomorrow,
you may only have my heart.
I will not build my home in you,
and I will not live in yours.
I am my own home.
if you want to love me,
you will delicately build the wooden frame
and arched windows that might live in me.
I am my home
and though we may be life long neighbors,
and though we might be loves,
I am my own home
these mysterious dark kisses on my legs,
green and blue and black, that bloom
like nightshade as I sleep
could only have come from your memory.
the same one that stares bright eyed into
my dreams, with hunger and apathy.
in morning, I wake to find my skin
raked with scratches; as if I am tearing myself up
from the inside out