A CAT IN THE ALLEY
               (I don’t want to hurt you)

Blind and bleeding stray
cowers from approach.
               (“I only want to help you.”)
Stumble, step away,
the fresh red signs my forearm.
               (“I’m sorry to disturb you.”)
Later, I will thumb the marks
while laying with my boyfriend.
              What if I had claws?
              What more would I be guilty of?

I, too, am angry
and vulnerable, huddled
in the corner of this dark,
wet world.

We were a waltzing marathon
Eternal box steps in the ballroom
In my dreams, we danced forever

I wore you like a cloak and
your skirts brushed against my ankles
with every twist and turn

My skin sings when I dance. Every inch is fire. Even behind my ears,
in-between my fingers, the tip of my nose
and bottom of my chin
When I dance I feel it all
Draped around me, I felt you all
You were so heavy…

I wore you like a mourning robe
It was so sad to dance with someone so sad,
but in my dreams, our dance was picturesque
Sadness can be beautiful.

God dipped Her brush in caramel paint, pulled

back the bristles and splattered marks on you.

           Constellation countenance. 'Ryan', mosaic, 1999, on-skin.

           Dusty dazzles speckle from your forehead to your chin.

Shut my lids so I can fingertip my cheek. In my head, I have them too.

I’ve made my bed. The sheets are fresh and white,
with crisp corners tucked in safe and tight.
Now all I need is you. Come and lay on them.
I crave your swerves and harsh stops,
I crave your dashes and jagged edges,
the sharpened point I grip
pledges my oath,
spilling you from the tip--
                            only when I can muster it.

The phrase goes, you fail me,
but really it’s me that fails you.
I mean, You’re inside Me,
not the other way around.  

When I can't speak
it's because I'm thinking
too hard about what I
could say.

I make my bed
but there's too much
room for you to lay.

What if I write wrong?
I'm not often strong
enough to risk it.

Sometimes I do it right.
Sometimes my sheets turn scripture.
(Sometimes I can write.)
                              Until then, my bed awaits hue.
                              I ponder with my pen.

i would like to be a tree,
                  for
             who would
               ever look
              at a
                 tree
             and think,
                                 ‘This is not beautiful enough’?