You Would Become
you lie next
to him as he
his face, and think
you would do anything
to enter him.
You would become
music, some orchestral
or unsteady beat,
or swathes of color
on the skin screen
behind his eyelids.
fricatives, be his teeth
and tongue teasing
sound from soft palate.
and dilation, salivation
A sensory spectacle,
cellular melt, this
It Takes Strength to Be Gentle and Kind
My governing emotion is poignancy.
I don’t love it unless it hurts
or threatens to. Yesterday, someone asked
me when I was going to write
something happy. I’m in this poem
now, and want out, want to disappear
into I don’t know where else to go.
Honestly, I felt just fine when I left
the house today, muscles full of forward
motion, gone to glee. Glad to go.
But now, surrounded by spines,
books I cannot bear
to open, friends I cannot manage
to meet–well, I just don’t know.
Do you think you can help me?
A word I used to use too much
was diaphanous, and thought of sea water
in afternoon sun. I would describe
poems that way, remember? I meant that
in reading them, I could peer through
a scrim or a veil or is curtain really the image
I want here of water falling between words
and just make out the shape of things.
I loved that blurry world, but now crave
definition, want to slide my hand down
the side of our oh well enough said,
feel its contours heave
beneath my callus. Drag lips,
soft, along the curve of it, until something snags,
peels away in small, thin strips. I need you
more than I love you. Sweetheart,
the perfect poem is something crass and kissing,
full of assumptions, is green and gamey,
a field of chamomile or nettles,
filigreed, and lit from within.