Today I saw photographs of you I’d forgotten about. And the breath I took in was taken back out; returned. My stomach sank and touched my toes. My mouth went from rainforest to desert. You make everything ordinary almost too beautiful to bear. When I remember you, you are not a photograph. I’m not thinking…
Your name is an unbroken heart in my mouth
Fingers to beads Palm against palm Forehead to floor Pray Find yourself On your knees
A Journal of Undoing – Four
For so long I have been in the possession of something that aches to be broken wide open and set free from longing. I will take anything – an affair, a distraction, a broken arm, an appendectomy. Heartache; anything that provides release from the embers of loving someone who needs nothing; least of all you….
A god of one’s own
I wanted a god of my own We would be, my god and I, impeccable in our fallibility I wanted a god who rode bicycles and cooked breakfast Burnt her fingers and held them to my lips A god who came home late waking me with her perfume Reaching for me in the fumbling dark…
And of her hair…
Her hair tumbles open I am unravelling This is the soundtrack to her hair falling across her cheek
This wanting sits deep in my marrow
this wanting sits deep in my marrow a missing like hunger my belly smacks with the lack of you as the bitter heart of winter misses the soft crumpling edge of heat some days I want you so desperately I taste blood on my tongue .
My.
My constellation My launch pad of a thousand ships – your beauty is alchemy My belly is dough My breath is leaving me My knees betray
Books make the worst lovers
Once, I couldn’t imagine that a book could hurt. But reading, like lovemaking, is among our most private of acts and that means vulnerability. Like all secrets, a book is power. A page turns. You grow deeper into a bond you accepted with complicity. Pasts reopen. Words reveal all. I’ve loved women. And men. And…
Like Earhart
Ever since she left she keeps being gone. It is as if we were notBut if I am unrealWhy is my flesh stained by reality The shy part of my wrist a plum-blue and yellowSkin she has known as obscenely as her fingers reaching inside of my mouth. This is not a case of distance…
Whatever I have, it is something else I want.
Cold nights these. I love the cold, until it is cold, then I crave the warmth. When the sun comes out like a drag queen on stage, I am praying for rain. Whatever I have, it is something else I want. And this is what unhappiness is made of. It is December. I wrap myself…
part-broken, part-whole 