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Richard May 2013
he watched my hands move over his skin
and he asked when i stopped playing the piano.
“second grade,” i told him, playing clair de lune on his ribs.

he smiled and leaned back to sing an operetta that was cut short
by the tapping on the door inside his heart. he looked at me
i looked at him

and together we opened the door.
Richard Apr 2013
corinth picked up the ball and tossed it up into the air as high as he possibly could. the energy it took for him to do so left him gasping and his muscles stung a little, but to watch the ball arc high above the sky, black against blue, was worth it. when the ball started to sink back down, he ran after it, bumping past athens who had been watching mere inches away.

the enclosure was a backyard to a white building surrounded by concrete walls that cut open hands when rubbed too hard or when scuffles turned sour. in the corner, there was a patch of green grass. the rest was stained yellow from lack of water or from too much sun.

sparta sat in the dust, his hands red with dirt and blood. the stains wrapped around his fingers and wrists and spiraled up to his elbows. he rubbed the pads of his fingers along the dirt, picking up small twigs and stones along the way, as he drew circles around the bird. the bird was dead, long dead, but its brown and grey feathers still stayed in its skin most of the time and the blood was drying so sparta’s hands wouldn’t be red for too much longer. the cracks of flaking blood opened like wounds on small boy's hands: palms big for holding bigger hands and fingers short to keep everything close. sparrow feathers and tears smeared comets into the dust while he cried for his mama even though his mama never came.

corinth ran after the ball, his breath short and his face glowing pink from exertion. as he ran, his hand running along the concrete wall, he started coughing. catching up with the ball started the initial coughing fit that turned into a rattler. he held his hand against the wall, clinging to it with white knuckles, as he hunched over to cough and cough so hard he could feel his throat start to stretch ragged, could feel lunch starting to come up. athens kicked corinth's foot gently before backing away a few feet while corinth continued to cough. when corinth's lungs and throat settled, he stood up straight, grabbed the ball, and threw it up again, this time out of anger rather than play. the ball went sailing backward and athens ran in order to try and get to the ball first, having had a head start. corinth was still faster and managed to shove athens away with a rogue elbow to the ribs in order to claim the ball again. athens didn't argue against the bone.

play continued until the sirens sounded. sparta stopped crying, corinth dropped the ball, and athens picked it up. all three of them hurried quickly and clumsily inside the bunker, shutting the door behind them. as they crawled down the narrow passageway, sparta started to hiccup, a leftover symptom of crying. corinth stopped and glared, and sparta murmured an apology before wiping his sniffles away with the sleeve of his shirt. corinth led the way until the three boys dropped inside the hollowed out room. it was round and the walls were mixtures of concrete, dirt, and chalk drawings. they each had to hunch, especially athens, as the ceiling

they sat in a practiced circle around the center of the room. after a few moments of quiet, hushed breathing, athens began the processions.

“we all here?”

the other two boys raised their hands. sparta’s fingers trembled while corinth raised his arm as high as it could possibly go. his ******* scraped against the ceiling in his earnestness. the three then began the tradition discussion of their names. sparta, forgetting conduct, almost gave away corinth's name, but corinth shut him up quickly. sparta apologized quickly and shoved his fingers in his mouth to keep from saying anything more. dirt and blood mixed with saliva in his mouth, and as he swallowed he ended up choking and gagging on the combination. he coughed and coughed, and corinth slapped him on the back. it didn't help, and the more sparta tried to stop coughing, the harder it lasted. eventually, he had to turn and face away from the other boys as hot bile slid up his throat and onto the floor with a small splat. athens grimaced and edged away.

"alright… show your lungs. everyone."

all three boys began the process of reaching under their shirts and pressing the smooth button under their ribs that unlocked the hatch. the hatch was a small door that ran from the bottom of their ribs up to their collar bone. when they found the smooth button, no bigger than the pad of their thumb, then a small click allowed them to open up their skin. underneath their torsos was a small plastic box that kept everything inside. it helped protect their bones, their heart, and, especially, their lungs. their lungs were frequent targets for doctors; they needed to be accessed quickly. fewer and fewer doctors came by to see the boys recently. corinth wiggled his shirt until he could shove most of it into his mouth, opening his body up and showing gray and green lungs that expanded and collapsed with every breath. his lungs were swollen behind his rib cage, and he experimentally reached in to poke in between his third and fourth ribs. the muscle that was there had been replaced by plastic, and had come loose when he'd pressed the button. his lung shuddered underneath his touch, but he felt the odd relief of pain swoop over him. two blue shirts tumbled to the floor as sparta and athens decided to take off their clothing and help each other find the buttons to unlock their hatches. the boys clung to the small moments of touch when the effects of their touh felt so alien, even after all those years after the surgery.

athens’ lungs were pink and perfect. he coughed and corinth couldn’t help but watch the way his diaphragm moved as he did so, and he felt jealousy pang in his stomach. sparta’s lungs were purple and blue, bruised and small, and they merely fluttered.

“lungs in order,” athens said quietly after a quick inspection of everyone’s insides. sparta immediately closed his hatch, flinching when his finger got caught initially between his inside and his outside, and started to put his shirt back on. corinth stole athens' shirt and slipped it on over the one he currently wore, his other hand slamming shut his lung hatch. athens blinked but let corinth stare at him greedily as he quietly shut his own hatch.

as they waited for the background noise of wailing sirens to disappear, corinth hugged his knees and athens started to draw people in the dirt with his forefinger.
Richard Apr 2013
we are all drop-dead wire hanger children
who still cling to mama’s skirt when she tells us to go free
because we have lost the wings that kept us grounded;
on gray skies and blue-black, bruised blood we flew
before the flood came down and washed away the meat
leaving only metal skeletons of our universal selves, our
heartbeats pressed inside paper envelopes, stored away
in moth-eaten coats.
Richard Mar 2013
gray skies are like when we danced to that cello piece on that thursday night. the thursday night where you talked and i talked and neither of us listened because our feet were moving in fast-forward time and in perfect pitch. gray skies are like grey skies but when i say grey it looks sadder and it wasn't a sad moment when we last touched hands.

it was just different.
Richard Feb 2013
when i think of you, i think about tracing scars and telling stories of the time when we swallowed fireworks, just to see if we'll both laugh or both cry or both kiss and lick at the wounds that are still there inside our mouths.

when i think of you, i think of stealing moments in the dark when i'll wake up and you will be there and i won't panic any more.

when i think of you, i realize that i'm a sap, and that i wouldn't want to have it any other way because i started as a love poet and i will always be a love poet, and i want to make poetry out of you and i.

when i think of you, i remember waiting and waiting and miles and miles where each one feels like shrapnel in my heart. i'm afraid that when i hand it over to you, to let it sit in your hands, you'll see just how small it is, just how weak. you'll wonder how it even beat, how it even raced at all. i see you taking my heart and kissing it, and it'll take all my strength to keep it beating in your hands. there will be holes where blood leaks, and it'll be messy. but please hold onto it. i want my heart in your hands, and i want you to keep it there. i don't know what i'd do if you thought to give it back.

when i think of you, i think of counting down days.

when i think of you, i think of driving down roads at night, accelerating too fast and feeling like i can't possibly stop giggling or else i'll just disappear. i think of wind and air that bites at my skin and warms my stomach because i wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

when i think of you, i think of the written list of all the places i want to take you, all the things that i want to do with you. in the end, we'll probably do some of those things, but not all at once. we can't do them immediately, because then we won't have a list. we'll have to keep adding, keep writing new things to do, and then we'll both have to keep secret lists, ones that i won't tell you and you won't tell me, and when we do them, we won't tell. for excitement. for more. we'll just keep it all locked up, so we can consult these lists while the other is asleep, or in the shower, or just not right there right then. little lists to keep everything okay.

a lot of the time, thinking about you hurts. because you're far away. because i can't see you, or kiss you, i can only say things over webcam or text or skype but then i think about not. about just… not. and then that hurts even more so i try not to think about that.

**** the distance. **** the time. i'll be seeing you soon. and that's a fact that makes everything better.
Richard Feb 2013
i want to live in a warm place, in a place like the desert, but with water. so that it's warm at sometimes, and when it's warm, it's very warm. when it's cold, it's freezing. like our bones will freeze to our souls if we don't move them. like the beach in canada, or something. i want to live in a place that's small, in a place that sort of doesn't require much upkeep. like a one-room apartment with a large bed and a desk. i want it to be high up, so that when i smoke i can look out at the water. i want to smoke and drink and be naked and cold and go skinny-dipping so i'm all covered in goose-bumps. i'd write all day, and spend all evening tearing apart every last word that i wrote before. the days would be spent swimming and smoking and drinking. we'd be wild and free and not care about anything at all. then when kids came along, we'd get a small house, and raise really exploratory, artistic children. we'd smoke in the night time, when the kids were asleep, and we'd all have sorta artistic-y type jobs that meant we didn't have to stay put, but could travel whenever we wanted by train. the most striking image to me is wearing something small, but being mostly naked and being cold and smoking and looking out over the water. i want to be able to speak russian, german, italian, and english. i want to wear glasses that fog up in the rain, and i want my skin to taste like smoke and dust and salt and tea. i want to have ***** *** in the summer and sweet *** in the winter. we'd collect coins and scars and burns and kisses. we'd learn how to sail and we'd eat pears whole as we play chess, getting juice on each of the pieces. we'll play video games in the cold with trembling hands.
Richard Feb 2013
the door to the basement is locked, but you don't remember where the key is. you know it's somewhere hidden, under the floorboards, under the mattress, over the door frame. it's somewhere. as the burning of your heart ignites your desire to go into the basement, you hear a creak coming from the stair. you don't want to feel it there, but you do. you spin and find that you're bleeding. the scars on your hand tell you you've been through this before.

suddenly, you're in the basement. the key is in your stomach and your heart still burns with passion. inside, your nightmares are all sat in concentric circles round and round the devil himself as he dances for you. you wonder about bible quotes and floods and how they got down here, but then they all stare at you with lidless eyes.

you blink first.

when you wake up, you're in bed and you're warm but the key is lodged in your throat and you're watching your parents make love, and you reach out to touch them.

they are no longer making love; they are consuming each other. their mouths close over each other's flesh and lovingly rip. the rips leave holes in skin that fill with blood and the smell is sweet-rotten, but soon they are nothing but lust and love and bones. even the bones have handprints.

so then you're upstairs again and you can't remember the basement but all you know is that the key's gotta be around here somewhere and you must have been crying because what is that lump in your throat?
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