Where is the medicine in that hair long fallen down
& where is the medicine again of your hands, dear
the medicine of making.
These days I am the body of a lion filled with bees
but I am also how the silence eases its thin body to the rug
& begins to sing & I am too every twinned star in the sky:
What is sweet but not true, what is as long the years I might wait
for you / what is stung what is promised? Let no simple retelling
cross this threshold, not enter this tent.
I am every piece of silver you could not lift
& every piece of silver you could.
Give me grace give me grace.
Your hair grows to the valley of you
where I / most want to touch though is the place
where your waist sweet girl narrows.
Where is the medicine when we need it: to take
the silence out into the night & show it every star,
how in the cold their wings still.
Your name opens & fills my mouth.
We both bring the dogs of our mistakes,
leashed & sleeping all around. O to want:
your brown skin:
I would travel to the goddamn desert
to make love to you & your teeth & your dogs on the rugs beside us.
Delilah, I cannot kiss away your lust to run, can I?
Only bring my dogs as well & we can wash their snouts together.
BEING ALIVE IS LIKE HOLDING YOUR HAND OVER A SPIGOT WHILE SOMEONE FITS YOU FOR A TERRIBLE DRESS, click to read as a PDF