It has nothing to do with them, it is the birth of love which has no direction, no body in which to be contained
Once the source has smeared its face.
You are overwhelmed with love and you are alone.
You are overwhelmed with a love you must restrict and compel to shrink back into your stomach.
This is a crucifixion.
This process is excruciating.

In a revered Tibetan tradition,
I read aloud to my father,
the dead are borne to mountains
and the bodies offered to vultures.

I show him the photographs
of a monk raising an ax,
a corpse chopped into pieces,
a skull crushed with a large rock.

As one we contemplate the birds,
the charnel ground, the bone dust
thick as smoke flying in the wind.
Our dark meditation comforts us.

I ask if he’d like me to carry him—
like a bundle of sticks on my back—
up a mountain road to a high meadow
and feed him to the tireless vultures.

"Yes," he says, raising a crooked finger,
"and remember to wield the ax with love."

sometimes

I wish that I could get out of here, away from the dead thud of your approach.
You remanifest with a mouth full of flat line, nothing’s changed.

A man with the same nature about him, the same engorged rhetoric toward life
I wished to bury in my garden long before. 

A wound in the backyard, untraceable and
unremarkable.

Not of my heart but of Her Red Sea in which you reside now 
Only as blood. 
Buried along with my naked, along with my softness and my victim.

When all this is over, don’t look at me 
and expect to see the same person.

Heart soaked and singed in lilac overtones
A tall tale; a castle cloaked in white diamond
An illusion deep enough to move its marble body,

He reaches out to me
But it’s not enough.
It’s too much.

Your red cherry cheek pressed on myth,
On vitality, a story
throbbing, falling, fleeting.
Legs wide, breast open.
I lie naked on blue sheets
And you are here
And you are present
But still I roam for you.

Still sit in boats daylight going further out
And even more

Until I’m lost.

When faced with rotting extremities,
Twist, snap and scream of agony,
When locked into to your anxiety,
Stomach full on deepest fear.

Remember, my darling,
That you are strong,
That you are brave,
And always have been.

Narcissists are the anomaly,
The inexplicable sixth kind -
The bend and snap of neurology,
The frequency turns horizontal,
And pulsates to vent, it stops -
And somewhere in the wound (bend)
Something cannot heal (snap!)