It almost feels as though,
if I hold the words to my throat, the heat of my blood
will transfer itself through paper--through intentions--
until it rouses tragedy and plucks the frost from
each delicately chosen word.

It almost feels as though,
if I cradle him in my thoughts, the boy will learn what I already know
and run before history catches up with him.
He will run and cry out his grief and his fear and he will escape his spies, his responsibility, his head, his conscience, his ties, his ghost, his guilt.

But no man--no, boy--can outrun a demise like this when
he's tripping on the roots of the family tree and failure
has taken his father, his mother, his friends, his affection.

The only person helping him stand back up is merely a messenger.

Cast thy nighted color off,
sweet prince of Denmark.
Breathe once in
the warmth of my heart before a colder kind of
messenger comes to carry you away, no longer a son of any sort.

Or are you still?

I feel God touch my cheek
while the congregation sings-
and for a moment, everyone is in key.

I hear my mother crying in the bathroom
and my sister singing beneath the porch light,
I hear my father's voice cracking as he tells me about his father
and my brother bidding me goodnight
with every chorus of Hallelujah.

I have been broken, I have lain defeated on these hallowed steps.
My eyes burned in the light of our savior and I fell with little grace.
I had lost all faith;
I had given up everything.

Now I stand as myself behind Him
while the congregation sings,
and from now on, love is not a sin.

I feel God touch my cheek
while the congregation sings-
and for a moment, everyone is in key.

I hear my mother crying in the bathroom
and my sister singing beneath the porch light,
I hear my father's voice cracking as he tells me about his father
and my brother bidding me goodnight
with every chorus of Hallelujah.

I have been broken, I have lain defeated on these hallowed steps.
My eyes burned in the light of our savior and I fell with little grace.
I had lost all faith;
I had given up everything.

Now I stand as myself behind Him
while the congregation sings,
and from now on, love is not a sin.

Conditional love, dark red
like the back of my hand-scraped it again.
I've been dreaming of darkness
where I'm free, far from Mother's blistering light.

How long has it been since we kissed?
The days in the cool ended so soon.
"I changed," I promise Mother every morning,
but come night, my heart is still yours.

The sunlight catches itself in the reflection of lacustrine mirrors
and lingers to watch the day fall
until shadows chase them into cool waters,
deep where a girl is laughing beneath the surface, clinging to
something beautiful and wild; an animal that sings at the bottom of the lake,
waiting for a lover to catch ankles with.
Trading shackles for wrists,
it cries briefly while you hold your breath.
And then, the sky is light again,
and the water clear of any life.

You will search for someone else's hell
when your own is fear tapping at the windows when it rains,
reminding you how unwanted
a wolf girl is, with her bared teeth
and sharpened claws that will break
when the truth slips out of her jaws and onto the cheek of an angel girl.

You will search for someone else's hell
when your own is being kicked out in the rain
for loving with blackened lungs of wolves
who've been stuck in the city,
when they are meant to be alone in the valley,
miles beneath the angels' wingtips.

The sun kisses your skin goodbye,
as the world turns away into night, so shy.
The girl isn't waiting up for you.