I want to be born in cold air.
Snow in December, maybe.
He asked why I was cr-
Ying. I said no reason and he did not
Persist but I could tell from
The furrowing brows
That he too wanted to be born in cold air:
Rain, or some variation of it.
You are like a *******,
Supple and grotesque, you writhe
Your way between my legs, over mountains of
Tender chicken *******,
“Slimy slimy slimy”
You said. I chuckled
Thinking of your skin clinging to mine like
A wet t-shirt because
No matter how hard I try to pinch you off
You spring right back, hands
Pressed against my chest.
We were as innocent as a young boy
Reaching into his pants, discovering what it is
To be touched for the first time, what it is to
Dance on the edge of the mountain.
I love it-
How a Saturday never felt
It’s like I am falling into place. Every
Piece of me bent and broken such that
I may be placed, so delicately, into
The ocean, into a room with blue curtains.
If I had known I would have stuck around, but these feet have carried me too far out; there
Is no home anymore. Only the sound of the sea, supple upon the shore.
One sock at a time
With elbows glued together behind
I work with
A pencil in each finger
Whispering something about me and
The sweaty palms.
I work keeping
My shoelaces untied so
I may trip over them
And fall to the ground so that,
By some miracle of God
Or a stay in the hospital,
Find a way to
Keep my toes
Warm; work without trouble.
Water running through toes and over elbows.
Cascading down forearms and up necks.
Falling in stampedes from underneath eyelids
Onto shoelaces and ankles and
Fabric draped across our laps.
This is the feeling of an afternoon spent entangled in
Covers. The sensation of a cold breeze
Swooping us up on its burdensome wings
Only to ask “Where’s my tip?” and the shrugging shoulders
That follow. The rattle of empty pockets. The
Shattering of glass and a cry for HELP
So incredibly ARDUOUS it slices your throat
Like a steel blade
And the clock doesn’t stop ticking
Around and around until you’re too dizzy.
This is the feeling of water running through toes and over elbows. Cascading down forearms and up necks. This is the feeling of an afternoon spent entangled in covers. The feeling of a cold breeze swooping us up on it burdensome wings. The feeling of a cry so arduous it slices your throat like a steel blade.
You are sad today.
You aren’t really
Sure why, but it’s eating
You are the rabbit in the tiger
You are the elephant
You are up from seven to ten wandering the
Path of your thoughts and
Driving them up walls until
They are just barely
Out of your reach.
— The End —