It’s me, all right!
Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.
Nothing happens until something moves.
the moment when our wide eyes
and pursed lips blow out the flames on
the birthday cake, wishing.
the smell of the earth after
rain soaks the dirt, the grass
and the worms wriggling for life.
the feel of gold-foil paper
signifying completion, as
it’s placed in your hand with
a smile and sweaty handshakes.
the first kiss, the first kiss after
six months, the first kiss after
uttering “I do” and the sway
of the first waltz, sharing
the gaze-the cosmic awe-
of each others’ bliss.
the night of consummation;
the day of giving birth;
the first day of school;
the last day of school;
the children’s children;
the cries in the night
when one side of the bed
is empty, cold.
the parting breath into death.
My heart is
an open wound, festering with
engorged, hate-feasting worms.
Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer.
I caress your sweet, soft body
while my eyes sting from
tiredness and silent weeping;
sleep escapes me, running
through my arms into
the dreamscapes of others.
But your softness, it comforts;
your blanket of skin reminds me
of every good thing- like fur and
the gentle purr of a newborn kitten;
the gust of wind in a field when
the tall amber grass touches the fingertips;
the countryside symphony of
crickets, frogs, birds- and your
fragrance- so delicate and natural-
assures me that men can be flowers too.
You do not carry the burden of hatred-
that black fire that creeps and crawls
in your head, burning
the veins, searing the brain
with the heat of rage;
have you ever stared into my eyes
when I speak of monsters
and seen the void?
No, because if you did, you’d cringe.
Your heart has not been sullied by
the unclean, maggoty hand of atrocity;
be grateful because your goodness
helps me to keep afloat when
the deluge of near-madness sweeps
me under its currents.
You are my lotus, standing tall
above my inky mire.