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…
Read to save yourself
Vulnerability is my superpower. Today I read The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse. It was just what I needed. Brave and comforting, wise and simple. A hand reaching out for my hand, it resonated deeply. It found me the way books have this uncanny way of doing; like they know it’s time….
Love in the time of separation
Amour, Time behaves differently around you; the way trees are around the time autumn comes around. Or how rowdy schoolboys turn into dulcet-toned sweethearts around the geography teacher who’s a dead ringer for Rita Hayworth. Time is not time around you. It is an imposter. Around you, time does not move like the staid tick…
part-broken, part-whole 