Could I
carry that
for you?
The softness of it,
so still in my hand,
a dead bird.
But I know it must feel
like dark matter in yours;
too heavy
- just, bright -
to com-
prehend.
.
There's something a bit
dusty about us;
if we dared to be
cute,
we would be bunnies.
The only thing
rabbit here
is our hab(b)it
of hiding
in broad daylight.
We turn invisible.
The gods cannot see us.
Otherwise,
you mottle and split
like a cobra,
so much
shed skin
and foreign,
new bodies.
.
I shudder at 'was.'
I have scratched
500 days
in the wall calendar,
and I just say 'was, was, was,'
like it's
the breath
of life,
(something precious
to buttery mosaics
and grieving gods,)
'I was skinny.
I was nice.
I was happy.'
N o w y o u ' r e d o i n g i t t o o.
Your hands are at your own throat
and you've scraped your skull clean,
inside and out.
Please put down your knife,
we will not eat our hearts
tonight.
I brought home icecream.
Get your spoon.
.
I think I made this.
This shadow that chose you,
following you around,
speaking in tongues;
and the guilt
is so much more
than bruises and string-chokings,
slamming your toe in the door
when I was two,
(snake sp(l)its, in the nail,
to this very day,)
bumping away at night
when we were empty-handed
and sorrowful,
dead morning glories
crying at dawn.
(Ladies whispering:
"so young, so sad")
Never has there been such a
disjointed thought
as trying to be good,
for caring for your mother and
so
slowly
drowning her
in our specifics
and demands
to inherit
something other than
mistakes.
.
We are her murders
and her children,
you and I -
brother.
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 10:43 PM UTC
Your kite
is a rainbow.
You
let it kiss the sun -
the glow is unfamiliar,
unlike your face,
even though we have only been
in the den
for five days.
If I could cry, I would.
Our backyard is teeming
with cardinals and spring,
but I can’t think of them.
I only see you.
Your chest
is an Indian beat
belonging to a drummer. I think it's for me.
I count it out. One, two, one, two.
The borders beyond the garden are looming;
they creep and crawl forward
like the disease we fight, pressing in.
Your warmth sinks in me, but I am still cold.
I constantly check foreheads,
pressing lips against suspicious skin,
and for a day or two I forget
that the world goes round
and that we are small, petals of daffodils.
You hold my hand, you rouse me as a child from slumber:
“Open your tongue. Look up.” And I look,
and I see those colors you’re flying;
I see a diamond and a sign
and God’s eye. Goodness now notices
my cough and bleed. My eyes are no longer mute;
my song comes from the windows,
it tumbles down the brick and vines
to meet the waterfall on my cheeks.
Rainbows can be tasted;
they can be felt on the lips much better
than fevers.
.
I fall to the grass and breathe
as a newborn: for the first time.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 2:05 AM UTC