PORTIA ELAN


AFTER HE IS GONE & KILLED I WILL COME TO YOU

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
 
 
 
 



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