Consider: we are each quarry.
We are each other's bait.
To be appreciated for
the fine pelt, the sharp
teeth and that something more
which calls out for
further attention

We swing like summer children at the
end of a rope, relying on the knots
to hold us as we lean back,
speeding too fast and
barely missing each other
collision of skin to sunburned skin

The little steps we execute
to sustain our moist eyes
and quivering chins. The coy glance
and the half-turn...
The ritual reflects
hideous on our shining faces

No time for slow dances, for
hands held in the
deep pocket of your coat.
My need matters more
than your peace of mind
(and you wave your magic
protective in front of you)

To pin you down, indifferent helpless
and feel the workings of
the small bones and muscles,
the breath staccato in my ear
my teeth tattoo our love-tale
on your shoulder. The rush
and the retreat

Satisfied and defenseless,
we stare at each other
in the fading light
not recognizing the changed face
and hunt for new meaning
in other forests

Untitled

Sunday mornings were the time
to sit in the corner
while mother and my grandmother
chattered in an ancient tongue
pressing hands to aching backs
Why didn't you teach me
the meaning, the implication, and
how to move my mouth in new strange ways?
For now I am held far from that other world
left to puzzle geography from a blank map
in my head. I smell
the incense and I can taste
the food and I hear
the words in the air like
roosting birds echoing to each other
but I feel clumsy and numb,
cold to the seasons that pass by
unfeeling to rituals I have misread
callous of some attitude toward life
left fallow in me. If that could explain
my difference from you, and others
I'd believe it. The poorest excuse but
what else do I know of you? except that you never
taught me your language.

To the boyfriend, dead now 3.3 years. Or so.

I am as old right now
as you have ever been. Imagine all that
time spent chasing your
coattails dragging in the mud of my memories,
catching up to your ghost so I could
press you into this shape,
these words, and flip the page
over, and back again. And you know
it hasn't been easy. I have
wished your miraculous return and wished I'd never
felt my cheek grow round in the warmth
of your hands. I have slept with others.
Skirted the town to a soundtrack of
amazing grace, my goad and my relief;
watched movies for you, and read books and
never moved a muscle when friends
forgot to ask about you, or about me: I've done
selfish things, I've tried to preserve
some self-identity to shine forth from my eyes,
unfortunately clouded with reverence of you. I've put words
in your mouth. Cried for things you didn't do,
waiting for your protest, waiting for you to
rise from the sea to chastise me. Anything, anything.
For lately I have indulged in missing you
been suffering from the undiluted you,
hurt to have caught your scent on the wind
and followed it obediently round and round,
dizzy and miserable. Feeling the little death
when I come to a stop. Wondering
when the big death will come for me, too.
But, I am now at the age where you stopped
and I am to begin. I have grown up, perhaps.
Dare to think I now know more than you.
It's called a backbone, dear, it's called
opening my eyes to the dazzle of spring
drying my tears on your winter coat
and putting it away