Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Bayley Sprowl Dec 2012
See, we hold secret meetings between our darknesses and hopes;

cry in heaves in our cars after midnight,
awake early to drink of a bitter cup:
coffee and whatever it accompanies,
these things, they keep my company,
                        cold tiles, cigarettes,
                        scriptures, fleas, and bedsheets.

I spread-   divulge cavernous wants, these
tiny comforts, the tiredest songs,
the ones I still believe in.

I was told to turn my spirit to the Lord.
*** seemed like the closest metaphor.
I was told that making love was how you sinned:

        to turn my soul to see the God inside me,
        to turn my face to watch a man inside me--
        they bear a heavy semblance.

But this is infinitely more than bone of bone and flesh of flesh,
this is the spirit of the ghosts that carve in rivers through my chest,

formless and void
         like universe before language.

This God,
he            hovered over my
                smallest waters,
                whispered requests that broke out in shouts,

and his words, not so different
than those of men who I have been with:

"Come before me. Let me come into you."
I originally wrote this piece when I was practicing the religion I grew up in. I revised it and, having let go of those traditional values and practices, feel it kind of runs up against itself. Pretty rough, pretty far from my usual structure, and pretty much written to be read aloud.
Bayley Sprowl Dec 2012
i wouldn't say love,
would pull you by the backs of biceps,
make you body-oriented: body toward
another body, me. and click-clack elbows
loosely toward you, my joints on string
for you, joints like a puppet for your pull.
you always tightened like a steady wring,
i dripped like a rag of kerosene
and yes, there was ignition, and yes,
you ignited me. it's good to burn
a steady burn flesh-wise, good to be
a fire and a flame. good still to turn
to ash beside, if the arsonist remains.
Bayley Sprowl Dec 2012
It's always your words that undress me.
Sobriquets, honeyed and multiple--
neck slowed over by narrator's
pale parlance. It's always my hands
that undress you. Motion diverse,
more adept than I expected. My
fingers feel separate and strange.
Our skin feels so starkly the same.
Dialectic crack in monologue,
made soft by the hot tongue of discourse.
Your open vowels morning-like, balmy.
I want you phonetically, fondly.
Our languages, various as Babel's.
We touch like snakes in love.

— The End —