facing each other
on ant infested logs
Even the most balanced of us,
Can’t go steady for long
…Before the inevitable…
That bit up there,
never mind it.
I admit, eyes down cast, mouth corners curling,
I don’t know what I’m talking about.
But like a finger pointing fervently at the moon
attempting to let you know why we’re about to be soaked
by a swift high tide,
this poem happened.
I won’t distract you with indications or explanations
when I can simply ask:
would you, could you have a loyal affection
for a gradient of being
squeeze my hand
and laugh at the impossibility of an answer?
Is it really insatiable longing that pulls arms out from our sides,
turns palms upward, and causes everyone
to be more beautiful in the act?
I feel the light and warmth that pours
from a breastbone forward gaze as
I caress the articulation of my clavicles in response,
yet I hate the need I see in my wet soft eyes,
this drawing from outward that is impossible
to bring to rest with connection to any one particular source.
Eyelids smooth, jaw lax, twirling to feel the swing
of the earth pivoting heavy in my ankles,
I attempt to taste the everythingness I ache for.
My knees sometimes give way weakly or worshipfully.
My throat, on occasion, tightens thirsty or sad.
My shins and forehead are known to press upon the floor.
Frustration or fear always wedge between your eyebrows
when I tear at myself sharply, cruelly,
ravenous to be Enough.
My sweet beloveds, I am sorry
for how I look to your bodies, your personas
to be the infinite I hunger for.
Sucking honey off your fingers,
clenching fistfuls at your forgetfulness,
weeping alone in bed anticipating your death,
I love the enormity of the inseparable
with a mind that must know a penny from a dollar,
fire from water, mother from myself.
I don’t want to wait.
I don’t want to hurt.
I don’t want to trust
in what won’t show me just one face
to relate to, but insists on being
every particle and wave, so I look to yours or mine.
It’s incredibly unfair, but too overwhelming
not to fixate on the form of a person.
Terrified at what cannot be steadfast ground,
new again right now, I pound violently against the
audacity of you or me asking that I be still
when anything I keep is an echo of you, of me, of fullness.
I soften in the shoulders.
Unappeasable craving turns to elbow lifting,
wrist rolling, sternum steered seeking to be seen and
your arms rise, round, and reach for me in answer.