if the garden were 10 inches wider
and the night less kind to me
if the neutral point was raised
and i could drink it down
if the drip came a few minutes later
when you were dreamless and slouching
if i could chip at the small divide
and the ivory birds nesting in my head
didn’t nearly break me
the coming is in the middle,
the third way is the unravelling
i’m not ready to close my shaking
fist around it
maybe love is always overkill.
i’ve been chewing the right words
for so long my mouth is full
of blood. i thought that maybe
if you met me there, in that blind
corridor of sound, i could
read the dreams out of your mouth.
or maybe i just had faith
that you would bring me a thousand
glass moons and i would never
have to fill another silly canvas
with lines and round birds.
the way forward would be clear
and i would teach it how to fuck
i would teach my future how to spot
a lonely road and leave it
how to not be afraid
of the canyon of time
that rests between us.
the way forward would want
to touch my bloodied feet with its hours
down in a small church where they
never say god, they just silently gather
no lost, dying crows drowning
in this river, no. at the very least
they would put their perfumed cheeks
to the sky resting their faces against nothing
and the wide open underbelly of dizzying light
would take my stupid world, the one that i built
and shatter it over my silver head.
i’ve never been good at pretending i don’t love,
but today i learned something new.
you taught me about dying twice.
you showed me how to long for indifference.
this time i am begging for an orange
i want to suck something sour and honest.
strange boy, i can’t help myself.
tomorrow i will find the best way
across the satin covers, slipping
beneath their wounds.
the truth is, i know exactly how this ends,
i’ve planned it. down to the rock
suffering in silence. the subway platform
with its smells and the lonesome
little voices pitying my head.
i want them all to be forgotten, born in
someone else’s chest, someone who can hold it.
as for me, i have a smaller purpose.
i said i didn’t want to stay
wrecking myself on a violent ocean
the feeling is always the same:
imperturbable ash smudging my
daffodils with their searching hands.
and i have been a daughter
and i have been a whore
but i have never been a lover.
the first time i felt someone else’s skin
i thought it was a river.
so go to the garden
dress the cold in mirrors
wake up to the falling morning
stretching her fidgeting hands.
soon, time will turn you over,
geometric shadows will eat your brain.
my vision of july is a trembling
echo of light and you are
antiquating beneath spills of
old ocean. what if the mathematics
is this simple: the slight
burning bulb is a sheet of metal.
the light is the equation. the
answer is the question. we have
already swam across the moon
as she touched herself with the sky.