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 Jan 2015 William Alexander
In the Garden there was a man
a quiet maker of boutonnieres
whose sunflower grin stirred pollen.

In the Garden there was a bird
a hummingbird, a quiet maker of songs
who steeped within his mirth, thirsty for more.

And now she tastes his flowers everywhere
as he weaves them into his lapel
that she might always flit home
just below the crook of his smile
and just above his April heart.
I am wild, I will sing to the trees,
I will sing to the stars in the sky,
I love, I am loved, he is mine,
Now at last I can die!

I am sandaled with wind and with flame,
I have heart-fire and singing to give,
I can tread on the grass or the stars,
Now at last I can live!
Who is to say,
we cannot break our bond with the earth,
that we are too strongly tethered?
Not I for one.
Nor stone age man who leaps to death in mimicry of the birds,
nor the prisoner who, in confinement,
looks to the sky,
framed with the walls wherein he lies,
and says to himself, or herself, nay, I cannot fly.
And could I fly, I would touch the earth again,
or else burn up in the stratosphere.  
Nay, nor the wild fowl, who may traverse 100 miles at a stretch,
ere they return to the earth.  
Nor ashes carried in the air and bourn away upon the trade winds.  
Who would admit an eternal debt to the earth,
which by every step we repay?  
Least of all them overcome with wonder,
at infinite depth, at scale, at cold beauty,
at the splendid simulacrum of the cosmos.  
Who then would hold me back by a leg or an arm,
who would through envy deny a splendid assimilation with the vasty domains of the other,
for what word, what momentary vocalisation of the earthbound
can in all justice give it name?  
But in good faith, commit my body to it,
and I shall move throughout the eternal regions,
and circle in infinite revelry.
Deny me not this wild vanity,
commit not my body to the earth,
and I shall not call you cur, who walks upon the earth,
and there for evermore is tethered.
 Dec 2014 William Alexander
take me and break me
a ragged doll
my porcelain skin cracked open and your shadows creeped in
i try to hold myself together
but it's hard when someone else holds the strings
        how do you do it?
i am full of holes
you spill out of me like blood from an open wound
        how could you do it?
you made me into nothing
i am still in awe
still curious
am i your muse or your monster?
I've redone this poem so many times but I love the concept of being a muse/monster.
 Dec 2014 William Alexander
i wonder if the doors in the house you grew up in
started slamming themselves to save your father the trouble.
i wonder if you can remember the last time you prayed,
and if you had trouble unfolding your hands.
i wonder if your mother knows
about the collection of hearts you hide in your closet,
i wonder if she could tell mine apart from the rest.
i wonder if your shoes know the reason why
you keep them by the back door and not your bedside.
and sometimes, i wonder
if you ever think about that night when i told you,
you wouldn't need to drink so much if you had me.
but it seems like we only speak when you've got body on your brain,
whiskey in your glass,
your judgement is overcast,
and you know i'm too weak to ignore you.
i learned how to translate your texts
from drunken mess back into english.
i am fluent in apology, but i don't ask you for them anymore.
this is just how it is.
it's not enough for either of us
but ******* it we are not above settling.
so i will ignore her name on your breath,
and you will ignore the fact that this means something to me.
i always thought the first time i kissed you,
it would be on your mouth.
i just wanted to be something warm for you to sink into,
something that could convince you to stay a second night.
but i sneak you out in the early morning,
and you take a piece of my pride with you when you go.
i am left to nurse the hangover from a wine i've never tasted,
wondering how this is possible.
waiting for the next drunk call,
for the next time i get to pretend we are lovers,
the next time i get to live out the fantasy i am most ashamed of.
it is the one in my head where you want me when you're sober too.

- m.f.
I bet you taste like
the most delicious sin
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