To Anonymous from Anonymous
I consider myself a filthy beast
staring at your broad hands,
fingers I’ve called elegant,
wanting to bite your knuckles and slide my tongue along your lifeline.
My thing for hands is stymied by this empty space.
I don’t grab your hair,
the soft sounds of my tangled grip a murmur from you
or a sigh.
It hurts to keep my breath so calm and the
aching spots here and here are
wings erupting in my lungs.
My feet aren’t halving the distance.
They’re turned inward while I walk
keeping our lines parallel and not
colliding on the soft spot beneath your ear.
How do I tear my want out of you,
my coward’s lust, respectful shame;
to reclaim what I know is mine in the hollows of your hips?
Can the world stand still so I can stop spinning?
The words are running today, runny even, palms not wide enough to cup and hold. Medicine jumbles the fever dreams, leaving fractured sentences, bits of love poetry.
Draw down the moon
A thousand and one nights with you
Hide my blush in your shadow
As we whisper through the woods
Everything that’s gone, reclaimed
Isis slurring through the beams
Gods drunk on our mystery
All the feelings felt, renamed
How you and I through time pursue each other
Erotic jests, deflated dreams
Hair tangled together, the only faith
is that you will keep step with me
Rusty gasps, breathe or write; please be another choice, this drivel is downright Discordian.
She thinks about Eden.
I haven’t a wish, she said, she said
A wish nor a dream, I’m satisfied
The garden around grows heavy and green
Trees over arching, the snakes in between
What more could I ask for? she laughs to the land
Rotten waters that pour from the spring
She carries around in her lithe, little hands
From a juglet she pours, so heavy and brown
Formed of the clay from the hole in her head
Scared not of the goat, she shouted, she wept
Alone in her room, the worm-filled walls seeping
Reach for the ceiling, there’s no release coming
From the fire that’s burning under the bed
Whoever you’re calling, the phone lines are cut
He carries the scissors, so heavy with rust
His horns on the door, he bleats and he butts
Doesn’t he know that you’re already dead?
While stories are written in the shower.
Will you carve constellations in my skin
perhaps send dreams of far wormholes
wrap nautillus-like about my temples
spend silver coinage on sweets and memory?
I lost your words in the woods as I ran
sand sucking at my heels
pearlescent breath coiling up around your neck
soft-barked trees hanging you like a kiss.
Wisecracks wait in leather jackets
wait in gauntlets
wait for promises
wait for enemies and melodies and deferences wept
you bring to me an asterisk
it dangles from my lips
another secret kept.