Nine of Me

Selection of Poems for Him

1.Insecurity

When I cannot in right mind
object to the way the blue blends into black
so subtly and perfectly, without me noticing
the separate shades, floating in sky,
then I may not become the darkest of nights
for it, in all its empty matter,
is painted on the horizon, and already there.

2.Jealousy

Dripping faucets have not been turned
all the way closed, cannot slice through that
liquid blue and reach the valve
that hide me valve,
turn off the water and you will
see the blood running,
turn off the water and you will
see the throat jumping;
for attention lies not in shaken heads
(no, why this color?)
yes, shaken heads
and second thoughts -
only for those who can suffice,
the water fading on the blanket cloth,
she’s sleeping like a figurine,
while crumpled I cannot be seen,
for all the rain.

3.Love

Physically, the area
on the left side of my chest -
yes, I know what lies
in that raucous rib cage depths -
is ripping sideways
and spilling out of my skin.
I can feel it, scathingly warm,
pushing harder than I think it is supposed to be,
then you tell me it is supposed to be,
you and your pre-eminent eulogy,
and yes! I disagree
and agree
and wonder
and I think about these things
when I am not holding my breath;
no time is left.

4.Anticipation

In the mornings, I have no room
inside myself to move.
My arms stay firmly loose,
my eyes a dazed gray-green gloom,
my mind unwilling to force
my body to activate
and bloom facing the sun
taking my frozen course.
In the mornings, before the dawn,
I have no will to move without
that ruined bright sky,
blinding my eyes from the wan
world that once kept me intact
and safely still.

5.Self-Disgust

They tell me I am
just as shaped, just as yellow
and sweet
as any other.
They tell me I am
wasting precious brain
on these ungainly dreams
of your speckled soul
and incubator reassurances.
They tell me I am
worth more than the bees
who pollinate,
perchance they pollinate.
My roots know they are right,
but my flowerheads are too far away.

6.Anger

The pit is the one thing
we pull out, extract from juicy pillows
of fruit flesh and skin,
even though, to us,
it is the worth of our footstep, below perhaps,
and we throw it away.
Intrinsically,
unquestionably,
the center is what is noticed,
for count or measure or naught,
as yours,
so when does this peach heart
lie on the table bare before my mangle?
all these bits of liquid bone
are lost within my tangle.


7.Obsession

Eyes are magnetic.
It takes more than effort to
sit back down, anew with blossoming wishes
of glances, stares,
looks, examinations even - but
considering I
contemplative I
too careful I
have decided, this once,
I am too tired to fight
the draw of eyes; remember it, in time,
as what was once the first step,
and the first match ember
on the hearth
before;
either,
the house burns down to ash
or the fireplace warms it to sleep.

8.Hope

you are not like each.
peculiar from every.
do not paw at strings,
leave them lying in a heap
of wrongthings -
roll them up with dulcet words
of forgetting and a hint of
dare I say -
no, daren’t,
simply enjoy the warmth of
padded fingers on my threads
my strings, my wrongthings
you don’t tear away like flaps of skin.

9.Bittersweetness

Drawing near the end of my logorrhea stream?
Ne’er, for words
are - contrary to belief -
worth so much more than picture,
not than image,
but the memory is what makes the view
we sat on darkened hill and saw.
These words, my little paperthoughts,
are giving you
another moment for your files;
put it away carefully,
and do not lose my smile now.