When I was younger
I slept in the top bunk
over my older brother

- Pretty soon we’re all going to die -
he was fond of saying
while we listened to Credence
Clearwater Revival on an old turntable
with a penny he taped to the arm
to make it sound like a $100

Pretty soon he got me saying the same
words, like moon, mosquitos and darkness
were in his ear, he’d have dreams of
naked women washing his feet
and sparrows looking out of his eyes

He hollered at old man death
when he was wanting some shuteye

- Nobody on earth is like me -
he’d wake up shouting not meaning
to disturb my sleep

He said - I am the white piano
they threw off the bridge -
- the snake bed and the shade tree -
- I am something, yes-sir-eee -

- I’m something not everybody wants
to believe - he’d say sipping on whiskey
bought from a woman up the holler

He told death to - kiss his white *** -
then holler at me to get out of bed
and go trim the grass around the stone
angels planted up in the high pasture.

four walls, and the ceiling above me.

the ins of the walls are pattering about,
the air conditioner unit rattles in my right ear,
while your pristine chest rises and falls perfectly to my left.

“leaky pipes” you said.
sounded like mice getting lost.

moonlight bites through the windows-
light gossips onto soft parts of you:
your eyelids, the crescent shape of your cheeks,
lips pressed, neatly together.
i hear your smoothed breath
and i’m thinking about what you said about how i make you feel a way you never have before-
and i told you the same.
how lucky does some ******* need to be to find: that certain person-
who fits in and around and throughout each corner of your body?
your mind?
your romantic, ******, more sensual feelings-
feelings that burn with and without you.
heat bores into my chest, laying awake, next to you-
    i am whole
    i am whole
    i am whole
i say to myself, silently.
i wouldn’t mind this feeling-
lingering on every day, and every night
    repeat repeat repeat.
coffee for breakfast.
a warm nap for lunch.
laughs for dinner.
*** for dessert.
    and dessert again, and again, and again.
until i am met with witching hour’s quiet breath:
   repeat.

the gaudy grey of morning leaks,
the hot star following close behind.
like clementines in a market bag:
our weight pools inward.
sweat wicks into stained linens-
sticky skin, pressed back to back.
   good morning.

You look at me sideways, puzzled by my anger
I breathe in the discomfort letting the sediment
fall on my memory, adding that much more weight

I haven't been asked why I'm angry yet
just denied the right to have a voice
imprisoned by my own brittle passivity
and molten fear of non-acceptance

You built the cage for me
and now I stand,
a 6-foot pillar of gold
behind bars of sand
unable to move

Anger, my dark friend in the shadows, has been patient.
He took notes when you said I was wrong
before I even got to finishing on the light I'd found,
on the excitement I found in the reaches
of my creativity, my consciousness.
Anger pinched me to bruising as I sat there,
a passive observer of grey lifeless bodies

You look at me and my anger and slam the door
in our faces, rendering us homeless, cold, starving.
He prefers patience over years, while I anxiously
pull at every eyelash, pick at every wound, shrink.

I want you to see my alabaster skin
and smile of purity
I want to show you my matted fur
and smoking breath

I want you to ask me why I'm angry.