Not many people understand,
That I did not chose my sexuality.
Many people think it’s a decision,
But it’s not an who I was born to be.
It’s a radiant act of self-blessing
Something every artist must do sometimes,
When no-one else will bless you.
And it’s funny, good-nature,
and startlingly strange.
No my gayness is not a disease,
I fall in love like any other,
And I have goals in my life,
To have a family, to be a mother.
Its ‘gayness’ isn’t obvious,
but it’s in the tone,
the voice, the stance toward the world.
No matter the pull toward brink.
No matter the florid,
deep sleep awaits.
There is a time for everything.
If you think what I feel is wrong,
I guess you can think that way,
I am proud of being gay.

a man reads not for enjoyment but to pass the time.
the time that a woman is holding onto because of uncertainty.
the uncertainty of life that hangs like a blade in the air.
the air muddled and rotten with sickness.
the sickness spills over from one body to the next.
“let’s get soup after this”
anything warm, anything comforting.

I think I've always had a fascination with the moon
and the sun.
It wasn't one of those things that was all of a sudden or joining the crowd.
It was simply not being shy with my admiration for the moon anymore.

I won't write about love,
Nor will I speak about it.
I won't try to understand it either.
Neither will I try to understand those in love.
For I have never felt love,
And I will not pretend to know what it feels like.
I won't act like I know what it is.
For all I know,
It could be as painful as a bullet through the heart,
As sweet as chocolate covered strawberries,
Or as strange as snow in the summer.
So this poem.
This is not about love,
But about not writing about
What I think love is.

the sky slides like a napkin falling from the dinner table
slanting like a wayward line that you drew with a shaky hand
the pills kiss you deeply and suddenly the double doors the color of luminescent moss turn into the double dutch jump ropes that whip your heels if you aren't careful but you're always too careful and you jump with the intention of never feeling the sole of your foot smacking the pavement but then the sound hits and your eyes open
your friend next door has greasy bangs and a mole that covers the top of her cheek and you're always catching yourself staring at it too long and you have to stare at the stains on the hallway carpet instead
but if you let yourself they all become old blood stains
there's a little baby in her home
a baby that has lungs like tattered tissue paper
a heart like a deflated balloon that hiccups too much
but the mother cradles it like perfection, like it can all be helped with enough arms and bottles of medicine each individually labeled with his name
her eyes are tired around the corners but you don't understand why and your brow sweats every time you think to look at him and you feel clammy around the edges
there's a night when you're woken up to screaming and ambulance siren lights
the dizzying red and white make their way into your veins and stay tucked in for years in a different city you can still taste the smell of antiseptic
when you come out to greet her days later there's no baby anymore and there's a suffocating silence
weeks later there's a small tattoo on your friends mothers' chest with his name on it
sloppily inked and looking permanently temperamental and you understand it as a kind of reminder or shrine or apology
you wonder if there's a funeral
you ask your father if babies go to hell
the television is talking about the beneficial antioxidants of wine
as he drink his coffee looking at the morning newspaper and never replies
the sirens can be heard in the distance and the morning feels like closure

it’s november when
the meds kick in, it’s
december when i feel
human again. (or maybe,
for the first time?)

i lack less.
found an appreciation
for something or another
dug up in the front yard
by a half-blind dog.
appreciation for
the living
and the
quiet
small
moments.

i used to know empathy,
used to take her hands
between mine in
cut scenes
but those were
   trembling eras
    of seconds,
    caught between
  an intensity i’ve since
        given     away.

an inferno.

of being
in love
with
wheat
grass bet-
ween
high
ways
and

last bit
of clouds
eating sun
like nectar
in the rearview:

or sweet talking
directly into his eyes
at midnight, hearing
a smile in the smoke
that separates our
houses.

cats with twigs
and dirt swimming
in their bellies.
ghosts in the
woods beyond
my car,
yowling at
the full moon
as if they
were born
to.

i now know
the silence and
warmth of
sleep.

i exist alongside
unfamiliar calm,
a quaint silence
that does not
burn at the
                 touch.





but

the world is
almost softer
            almost
                       lighter   --

my skin is
held to-
gether
with
some
thing
more
than
glue.

     (maybe
      stitches?)

i wonder
if i was
human
the whole
time.

this is a depth bomb cutting,
a midnight message for me,
a Zola accusatory,
“You make me think about death and doorways and sleep”

no mere paper cut incision,
bandaid and triple bacterial,
a forehead kiss
and an-on-your-way

nope serious business

death and doorways and sleep
and all that is in between,
nightly rehanging the me-moon,
on that curved tip

the onerous tasks of child raising,
you, the perp, the perpetual kid,
the holy version victim trinitized
too?

hanging your self right on that shining orbital,
leads to unquestionable answer processions
ahead of the unanswerable, they ask,
what’s behind the screen door of

death and doorways and sleep

life is hard,
but without questions,
it is unquestionably
harder

find the doorways.

this explains so little
and so more much.

reminder: make doorways - open them

11:10pm 4-10-19 ~ 10:31am 4-16-19

~for AH~