four parts

I

the dull burning of a cigarette

you lit between my parted lips,

the unfamiliar softness of your kiss.

if one day you’d listen,

i’d tell you how quiet that night was,

of the few men i have loved,

of all the men who have loved me.

you wouldn’t ask

how far they are from me 

now.

II

there are seven names for your eyelashes

that i have collected in the following months,

several more for the delicate 

hair that never grew when i held you.

and now in your eyes

there is an emptiness when you look at me;

you don’t recognize me anymore, 

or maybe you just didn’t

then.

III

what a shame,

we are always in this bed

either having it

or having it out

you leave your lighters on my floor,

don’t move when i rustle the sheets,

your cue to go.

i breathe a sigh of relief every time

you leave, a blue elephant

lifted from my soul

so that now i can finally be free

if only 

i could 

find my 

keys.

IV

the clinking of glass marks

our final destination, a departure from

the sobriety we tried to make with each

other.

“i’ll just have a diet coke” doesn’t work for us.

i need to feel less

when i’m with you, numb my bones with cheap red wine,

drink until my taste buds bleed,
till i feel no hunger,
no thirst,
no loneliness,
nothing essential.

till there is nothing but this hollow,

empty,

yellow

yearning.

habitual september

wander back to free-thinking humidity,

wet / stagnant / imitation bliss.

heavy limbed, you lifted me

through the haze of booze and cigarettes,

let me scribble through your words in intoxicated joy.

i couldn’t have asked for a better loneliness.

_____________

nothing is more poignant than the ache

of the moments after.

“i don’t make the rules,” i imagine you’d say,

and i’d wish that you did.

i could have photographed you in that moment:

dreaded hair back, sitting on the stairs.

the way you looked at me when i walked towards you,

the semi-politeness that followed,

something unmistakable in your eyes.

i could have followed you then,

shared a cigarette and held your hand down the street,

only two blocks from your car.

instead, i stayed home in the dark,

told you i’d kicked the habit,

though i wasn’t sure which

one.

_____________

breathing was never difficult until

i had a night without it,

i never really heard the birds sing until they

cried.

four a.m. is lonelier when you spend midnight

in the grasp of another 

and sometimes i am overwhelmed by the beauty 

of the land we shared,

of all that it discloses,

and all that

remains.

indicative expedition

traveling alone simply isn’t safe

you should have said. instead,

“i’d like some hand printed paper”

or perhaps a bracelet made by an orphan.

you should have warned me:

travel light

always carry a sweater

watch your back.

_______

when you sign over your soul

for a month in foreign lands,

they warn you things won’t always be

easy.

the water isn’t always cold,

or hot

rice is the staple you learn to

avoid

the natives will likely look your way.

they don’t tell you,

when you hand over thousands of dollars to

a man as old as your father,

that he is a thief.

that he will steal your safety in 

numbers, that he will rob you of your

credibility,

that your well-being is merely

disposable income for the game he

secretly loves.

they don’t tell you

“we won’t believe you”

when they preach the magic of

religion, the wrath of the gods,

the meditative therapies of 

the himalayas. 

they don’t tell you of the nightmare

you are about to relive.

__________

when you arrive sweaty off the plane,

full of promise and excitement,

they won’t warn you

of his black, beady eyes,

dirty crooked smile,

the smell of cigarettes

and humidity.

instead they say:

be wary of stray dogs

food vendors on the streets

bottled water with a broken seal;

they never said

sleep with one eye open,

keep abuse to yourself,

be submissive to ensure our comfort

and denial.

what they should have said is

be careful.

what they should have said is

be careful of us.

words for a body

the endless quest for satisfaction
always begins the same;

you take something because you live for it,

not because you can’t live without it.

love is insatiable,

inexhaustible, ruckus. 

your love for him

doesn’t have to rival mine,

it just

is.

_______

the feeling of being watched, 

of knowing exactly how to displace what rests 
on your shoulders when you place

your head in your hands. 

the beautiful words in foreign languages

no englishman ever mastered.

‘dealing with the sorrows of your past’ 

you spelled out; 

our only word for that is

love.

(and

tireless,

it waits.)

2032

even now 

years later as i 

walk through the garden, 

i hear those songs we used to 

sing, the large stones 

protecting my calloused feet,

the dying oak tree

like i was then, 

broken and proud.

i trace what we’ve grown 

with my fingers:

the purple pansies, my mother

delicate, resilient

the fern, my only brother 

weathered and stern, 

my father

the weeping willow, 

all my sorrows in 

his branches.

inside, a man waits for me.

he has strong arms and 

a quiet laugh. he is stirring 

something on the stove

and he looks up at me 

and smiles.

i am barefoot and awake, 

for the first time.

i dip a toe into the 

cool pond we dug that summer.

i sense the darkness beneath my feet

and feel it waiting to 

swallow me,

the familiarity 

calling.

the years in silence.

the guilt.

the darkest hour that’s

just before dawn. 

i pull back. 

tea’s ready,

he calls through the 

half-open window.

i step forward, inside.

i take one last look,

away.

i drink my fill. 

a blueprint

i wasn’t made with the kind of mind that 

waits

patiently for words to come

so perfect

they need no backspace, or

punctuation;

or arms that take things as they are

instead of how i want them 

to be. 

my eyes don’t look out the window and think

lookatthatbird,thatbeautifulsky

without thinking

thatbeautifulsky would be

so much lovelier if you were in it and

my stomach were full and i had braids of sunshine in my hair.

i was given legs that

take for granted the afternoons in bed

with the crosswords; (you never knew 3 down

and neither did 

i)

my eyelashes were always too comfortable with silence

and you were only content with more,

more than my mind could give, of

my body, and

heart.

but i wasn’t blessed with that kind of mouth,

one that cries yes! with every corner and turn.

my avenues all eventually lead to 

dead ends

and this is no different than the movements of my fingers

and the way my teeth fit tight together,

how my lips crack sometimes when i smile.

i put clay on my face

and dirt in my eyes,

sing with weeds from the garden on my lips.

nothing grows in these arms but some nights you don’t seem to

mind

this mind,

less than blissfully aware

we wander through acid dreams

and our song plays on

late into the starry

night.

monologue

"But I love you."
Where? Where is this love? I can’t see it, I can’t touch it. I can’t feel it.
I can hear it. I can hear some words, but I can’t do anything with your easy words.
(Closer, 2004)

i promised myself i would face your absence with dignity.
instead, i remember:

the floor cold, room hollow. the shower stares at me,
the tile laughing at our despair. my words are meaningless, your gaze
empty. i think back to the time right after we met.
sitting on the decomposing stairs. there was dust, so much dust.
you brushed the cobwebs off my words. i meant them then.
so full of promise, the broken glass you carefully led my sandaled feet
around.

you fell asleep with my hand on your chest,
my ring stuck on your index finger.

____________

and now, this:
broken sobs.
the heat of anger, the final storm. the word devastating
clinging to the wallpaper,
my private collection of last looks.
some vacant echo reverberating
between the walls. water, tears.
water.

so much water.

____________

i remember waking at seven one morning in the spring.
it was raining, you still went outside for a cigarette.
we were quiet then. i fed you pieces of an apple, you watched me
fall back into sleep.

you owed me something then.
the word love is an agreement, a treaty.
the word love is a sentencing.

it owed me an answer when i asked it,
how will this ever survive me?

____________

that evening on the boat when you made me dance.
i wasn’t afraid then. we had cheesecake
and miles of river ahead. that boat would have sailed us
as far as we let it.

the yellow rose that died before its time, your hand against my
thigh under the table. sweat. the sound of trains.

quiet.

____________

and then, reality:
i am too much like
your mother and you are
too afraid.
the water steals the room, too deep to walk away.
i turn, gasp for air.
i turn back.
there is only a ripple where you were.