at 1:19 i woke up wanting
to get dressed and walk to school
wait for you to come to your 7:30 class
to ask what color of shirt you wore yesterday
tell you i wore black and that my feet were hurting
as i walked from classroom to classroom
and that they’ve buried the fish without me

you undressed me. shy,
as if I haven’t let you before,
you untied, kissed me up the thigh.
you undressed me. shy,
as if you haven’t kissed up my (sigh),
you locked the door, you did more and did more.
you undressed me, shy,
as if I haven’t let you before.

there is a wide blanket
pure warm wool and all, and ours
only during the driest of summers
and never in the wetness of August
in pushing winds, in pouring rain

like spiders, we wrestled
into your wide white mattress.
your legs, all eight of them,
entangled in all eight of mine.

this heart, like a child, threw a tantrum.
it demanded to know where you are
why you went
how long it takes to get there
and when I said “it’s too far
I can’t take you”
it begged to know when you will come back.

sometimes people walk home with hands
inside pockets or pulling on straps
of backpacks– unaware they’re
dripping blood so pungent
that stray dogs
kept away

scared? he asks.
yes, I say.
of what? he asks.
your smoke
your songs
your sin,
I say.
oh, he says.
my heart; it falls,
I say.
then fall, he says.
unfair, I say.
why? he asks.
will you stay?
I ask.
I can’t, he says.
scared? I ask.
yes, he says.
of what? I ask.
your hair
your heart
your heat,
he says.
oh, I say.
my heart; it falls,
he says.
coward, I say.
his lips, I kiss.