I wanted to call you--
in the wee hour, when only
      the roach stirs, or
      the cat light-stepping
across
some unseen shadow--
my soft quick patter
      there was no choice, what's
      one rushed goodbye
there would have been a fight
let's be mature
      about this--

            I want to say this
pragmatism is humiliating
it hurts the heart
      a little
a man would hang
on the last word
from such lips--
      but I didn't
call, you might be sleeping
      it's hard for you
      to sleep on
warm nights like this.

Instead
I sit alone quietly
watching my own shadow
      indistinct, that
dark second guess of me
thoughts of care and cowardice--
a fine bright line
      of morning
            falls
there on the floor, from which
each moment clearer and more fierce
the insects flee.

She loved the song that lent me wings,
its pale mythology of lust.
Reaching for words the singer sings
she clutched at feathers and found dust.

And now upon her swan-beat back
she bears the weight of firmer bones;
and I, who never heard a lack
of grace in any woman’s groans,

am lifted on her soaring hips.
Transfixed she struggles down to day,
choked by the earth between her lips,
treading a firmament of clay.

Woke to the smell of smoke
Only to find my family
Standing around our couch which was on fire
Like a group of homeless people trying to stay warm

This is just practice
For when the money runs out

Forget the missing smoke detectors
Forget the old man just standing there
Saying, “I’m sorry” like old men do
Forget four walls
Walls are flammable

There is this distance
The size of apathy
And we
Are in the middle
Huddled around a fire
Trying to stay warm
As our house burns down around us

Until finally
Dry lips whisper water
And ***** lungs
Die for air
And I grab a hose from the porch

As the smoke finally clears
As they huddle in the car
With the heater running
As I learn to finally see my home as broken

Still
I will always have a safe place to cry
And we will always have a safe place
To lie

maybe I will go out there
objectively;
allow for it all

bite the dust
inhale the wisdom of failure

maybe I will ration the raindrops

invite the Tsunami
exploding fate

finding in death,
a likeness I never knew

Linaji ~ 2011

Your lips are a mystery to me.
I have studied their soft implications:
how moisture beads, tongue-touched
after certain words have rained;

their principle unfolding beneath
the warmth of breath, gathered
upon their petals, as if
tasting the humid sun;

I want so much to know
how your lips blush shamelessly,
why their feathered curve feels
like a moan, how they ripen

subtly into kisses, the tongue
in which they say take of us
and feed, smear your pollen
we will make blossoms and smiles.

There were certain
        disturbances:
Skirts high on the thigh,
        front-row desks and
        that shadow between
                the knees;
Questions showing
        the definition of the torso
        and the upraised arm;
Sojourns to the office
        at dusk
        to pose shyly–
                fingered tress in golden
                lamplight between door and frame–
        and the door closing;
And of course
        learning, passion,
        bright eyes and
        a vernal splendor
                of poetry.

You a blanket and I—
naked boughs,
leafless sounds
of exposed limbs.