A Letter, Never Sent

This is a letter that will never be sent. This is a letter I might as well write in the sand; I might as well write it in smoke.

You will never hear my voice again.

You will never spark with a bubbling laugh and spread your arms wide to hug me, your hair scented sweetly with clove cigarettes. You will never ever listen to another song with me and consider the warm melancholy of a dark-haired boy's voice. You will never shudder with joy, digging your fingers into the grass, in the summerwhite sun. Your grief will never fall into step with mine again and we will not weep together until a rushing river runs from our tears.

You have betrayed me, and your name will never again pass my lips without a taint of blood and earth.

I hope your grave is a comfort to you.

In Praise Of

This is in praise of your fine-boned wrists

and gentle hands,

of your arms laced with blue veins

and your long beautiful neck and pointed chin.

This is in praise of the sharp bones of your hips beneath the flat of my hand.

I sigh with my lips resting on your freckled shoulder

and I pull you closer to me,

even as you sleep

the strange architecture of your back working against me.

What I Want

They say there is a secret power in naming. In fact, in many cultures, you have a secret name you do not share so that others cannot wield it's power over you.

It is also said that knowing the most secret name of things is a sort of magic, that you are able to truly own and manipulate something if only you can speak it's true name.

There are some well-meaning but confused daytime tv type of people who explain that only by naming your wish, the universe will respond. Though it might be nice to think that a blind and wise system grants your heart's desire, it's a selfish dream.

But I did make a list, two lists, in fact. What I want from the future and what I want from a partner. My heart went cold as I wrote both short lists. You see, I knew it was too much to ask. But having made the lists, I then knew what I could not live without.

And somehow, instead of the universe responding, I did. I started to seek, and to feel. And found found everything I'd dreamt of, and more.

Lost

You were the gods of our childhood. As soon as your voice shook the earth beneath us, you must have known you were also turning the hourglass. I imagine our tiny hands, the fine pink blush beneath our minute window-like fingernails. I know you looked down upon a head like an bird's egg, delicate and whole. How did you not reach out your hand to feel the soft down of our hair? There is a particular smell to a small hot child, chest heaving from the frenzied joy of running wild. Didn't you want to lean down, pick up the wandering child and whisper a sweet word into their tiny shell-like ear?

Instead, your hand seized the delicate wrist, squeezed until tears slipped from tight-shut eyes. Your rage quickened and grew along with our tiny jerking hearts and bodies. Your voice, a dangerous whisper, raised the hair on our arms and necks, or as a roar like a blind waterfall, rang in our ears for hours.

You laughed, liquid and dark, while we burned with sorrow and fear. Blazing white hot, your violence melted steel until even our hearts were soldered. We hid behind a flimsy paperboard door, tiny shoulders shaking. With time, your very name became a curse.

The Little Boy Lost

William Blake

from Songs of Innocence, 1791

“Father! father! where are you going?

O do not walk so fast.

Speak, father, speak to your little boy,

Or else I shall be lost.”

The night was dark, no father was there;

The child was wet with dew;

The mire was deep, & the child did weep,

And away the vapour flew.

The Center of the World

I remember your hands hovering
like sick satellites over my reluctant hips

I felt you flay me
night after night
imagining my suffering
would somehow draw me to you

and your monstrous magnetics
made you the gravitational
center of my world

undated, around 2002

For VS

I explain to the quiet Russian boy
that the streets of Moscow
have lingered long in my dreams
their golden domes glittering in my imagination
he stares and asks
if I plan to go alone
and if I have a gun

You see, here, the two questions
are hardly related
so I laugh when saying
yes then no

With a tired voice
He explains

His uncle, whose name he shares
who still lives in Russia, in the fabled city
was walking home at five p.m.
not two months ago
his own gun nestled in the soft cloud of his down jacket
and he stopped to cross the street
without a threat,
a single sound of warning,
a crowbar or lead pipe was
bashed into the back of his skull
splitting it in three places
and as he hit the ground he saw
frightened women drawing paper shades
looking away

2002

Ancient History

you went on and broke
our agreements, paths, pacts and promises

somewhere along the line
instead of screaming
wailing and wearing your sorrow
on your sleeve like a bloody rose
instead of pulling the emergency brake
you opened the window
mangled and pulled yourself
out, into the wind and onto the rocks below

I could have saved you
we speak the same language

but you didn't want saving
you wanted the swift hum and thrum to

end