When the sky is moonless,
many of us fret.

But I want you to know that it is for
something beautiful, even a
fairy of sorts - she
ties her hair
up around our solar system like a
lasso.

She tickles the stars
until each gives way, and creates a
burst so big
I finally get you on your knees.

Whispering,
hold me hold me.

When your future daughter cries, I'll
have you promise
that you
will tell her that the sun

knows where she sleeps, and when she
says, tell me,
daddy,
about the big bang,
please read this poem to her.

One day
she may understand that
she can attach herself to every
other person
in the world, too.

This power that cottage-sized
girls hold
holds all of us together.

When the sky is moonless,
remember that it is not at all lonely
but how we stay
in love with the whole universe.

your sobbing on the telephone basically became,
did he ever love me enough
to wish that I was his first & not
just his last

because it comes every daybreak
because moonlight's
so much more quiet than sun

I fall asleep counting lies instead of sheep
then the cold bodies

coo
coo coo coo
& replace any warm-blooded creature myths gave

your songs about trust are now
just broken promises

(they matter too)

coo
coo coo

there is pressure in your stomach
where you want to make me shut up & stop now
so we pause

for you to replace yourself
with someone less calm

but the moonlight is so much more quiet than a
sunrise
I have dawn inside me &
intend to ***** it out onto your shoes

fertilize the flowers
so a whole meadow grows facing you

birds coo
(they matter too)
coo, coo coo, coo coo coo

we talk about this 'til my lids can close safe,
did he love me enough to wish that I was
his first
or just a really good last

because I tried to be really *******
great to you

& mornings
have always been hard to bury
behind my eyes
coming second after some really great nights.

It is the place of dreaming,
you love me here without needing words.

Either one of us, you or I or you and I both
have lips on the other one’s toes
because the walk has
been far for this touch and I am weak.

You promise me here
that I am inside my body even when you
are, too -

I am not to live as some would suggest I do
breathing for the next person
to grab hold of me
and say that I gave them possession.

But welcome home,
it is you who visited two states to kiss me.

I cannot promise anything but
the kind of connection
that means I may dream about you forever

or write as if I will.
All the other nights where even my mind
had its lights off, they were just
practice for having to walk away from you.

It does not matter where it hurts
now that you are here
just that I can have you touch me there.

Sweet baby,
I dream of your love that flows like waves.

Love is a series of lanterns being lit
where there was no need for lights to be hung, unraveling at the
ceiling's spine
I set a flame by means of our hybrid blood.

Already *******, just how infections are supposed to breed,
how love is supposed to be
I fear someone else has touched the vials.

She started a forest fire
that's traveled from grass to stars to hearts
and the meteors give false hope, seem all but perfectly like rain.
Calm, there
is a small peace in
having all your worst nightmares come true.

I understand these problems because
they first existed in my head, everything always begins as
cells in a body
now relief in seeing hurricanes split windows

                    because he would
                                     understand, too.

Hanging from these rooftops is what is left of just the two of us
it looks pathetic like dead cigarette butts. Our
nerves tied into rope.

She has contaminated us
I cannot hold his hand without touching hers too, I cannot
love him without watching our foundation
burn to the ground
but the whole world is bright when there are three lovers inside.

Tuesday's picked it out, the three year old envelope
I had dried out for a scrapbook
quite close to rose petals in pattern and fabric.

Symphony number four sings,
he thought I was a little girl when we met but I have
felt like a *****
since birth; the difference is that my privates
came upon a sunset at age eleven
now it is unacceptable to wiggle my *** at every man I see.

God, to have my body change
with the sky. I was supposed to run to my earth-mother
tell her of how I altered the cycle of the moon
but I've waited until now,
month thirty-six of burying his fertilization in myself.

Compared to him, I am so young that
I am dead.

Any year after 1990 has been negated
letters have been written, rewrittten, unwritten in black
marsh pen and the tide of it
is filling high in his eyes. For some time now,
my hands have been on every universe
redrafting what is already supposed in my bright, red ink.  

I have been a woman for seven years
and a ***** for seventeen, but
my daybook just reaches December 2010; I took a man's
thorn so all this blood would begin to matter.

Your bedroom, built of sugarcubes
glued together with honey
and lightbulbs powered by milk. I can electrocute
myself again and again
without consequence,
only feel full and slightly liquid
inside. The
child-like asylum, a promenade
he says, you shall be safe here even when
you would rather not be.
We made a test of who is big-***** and which is
small - ******* around my wrist
checking for a pulse.
Five times a day, most past eleven pm
you complete the rounds. You
make sure my bubblegum lungs don’t stick too well
but paste the foundation
to the house.
I know that you know about how much I
hate glue, feeling soft,
comfortable but never enough to hold me to anyone
for long. The flakes vaporize like
snow.
He says, you are safe where everything is warm
I say, but can I be happy if love
is not something that cements two people together.

It is August
but I have your shirt pulled up to my nose
like your scent will
protect me from another bad night.

I wear it as a turtleneck
and tuck my arms inward, making a blanket.
I am so sick of
              not feeling safe.

I remember asking you to use the tip
of your fingers on my
shoulderblade
caress the flesh into small waves
(You live too close to the sea to not taste
of salt)
then fabric wrinkled in a bundle.

Make me guess what the skinstrokes mean.
I am learning braille
or just how not to be alone.

I am so tired of
              waiting to know what you drew

when the sun is so high
shadows can only be cast on the oceanfloor
and everything above my clothes
breathes (I love you
too much to not taste of salt).

When summer ends
maybe I will get a good night's sleep, held
by seaweed and
reading your messages out of a bottle.