there are so many ways
for you to unfold
remember that fortune-telling game
at school
calling out numbers
and colors
to determine
what kind of house you will live in
hut / boathouse / mansion
life would be so much
simpler
if we limited to just
a few
options.
but anyone who has tried origami
can tell you.
even folding paper
is not simple
Category: Poetry
Words, the blood of poets. Slick, wet, hot, pouring over the page in a curtain of sultry satin red.
figurative vs. literal
I can touch the night sky.
literally.
reach up with both hands
peel back the black
and reveal that stars
aren’t
really
stars
they are the dust of our dreams.
bright and powerful enough
to burn holes in the void.
(for L&L)
not where you looked last
you want to disappear
but I know
all your
hiding
places
you want to be lost
but I know
it’s because
it means being
somewhere
new
you want nothing.
but I know
you really
want everything
you’ve just
been taught
not to ask.
sheer
you cannot say
“this is enough.”
when
the thought
of your thighs
makes the world
too small
to hold
my
hunger
janus
spilt
you like to hold
your cup
like it might
shatter
if I speak.
I noticed today
that you put
all the glassware
behind the cereal
so I’m waiting
to see
if you ask me
for milk.
Choked.
choked
on my words
placed
so delicately
upon your tongue
you are taught
to respect
prohibitions
by force
“what will you do
when my reach is so long
I can pluck your sins
like over-ripe cherries?”
your answer
is no answer at all
because you cannot speak
with my words
filling
and burning
your mouth
blank spaces
what if all the blank spaces
are just hiding places
for my devils?
and I fill this page with words
to overturn their homes
pluck them by their wings
and make them mine again
bright light
you are
a bright light.
a soft curve
unrepentant
but forgiving
you are today’s delight
the space between each breath
and sometimes
breath itself
never enough
There is not enough of you.
Not enough of the special brand of mischief
your eyes promise.
Not enough of your promiscuous laugh
that has made itself so comfortably at home in my heart.
Not enough of your crooked smile,
or the map of your thighs in the morning
a lazy but confident promise
if only
I will stay in bed.
There is not enough of you.
so I stole your shadow from a sunny day
to shade me while I read
I convinced your reflection to follow me home
and watch me as I write.
There is not enough of you,
so I will write you into a line,
a poem
a book
a dream.