making your brain my home

we are committed now to this journey through each others’ minds–
we took the steps and there is no backwards, no backward steps
until we reach the end, we’ll see it through to the end
of knowing you and stealing your thoughts, until I understand your miseries–
feeling you snake through my head at times tickles, sometimes squeezes hard
in those spots where it is narrow, where I booby-trapped the entrance
every tragedy covered in shame and pushing out the light–
could you just feel your way around, feel your way about the place
so that I might have comfort and warmth where you find
Antarctica, so I could have piles of skins and a blanket of care
your wild passions and tanks against the battlements of a weary mind–
and I walk-a-bout your head because you let me, and make it my home
for a little while, make it feel like home until I know you so well
I will conveniently forget where the doors are, forgetting
the front door and also the back

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Off kilter

I reached into my pocket and felt around for the shorty, a cigarette I put out under my boot when I had to duck into the butcher. I lit it.

The tip went cold and I shifted packages to one side awkwardly. A hand under my elbow held it steady while another brought ’round a match.

“Thank you green eyes, ” I said, and smiled, dropping the package of chops at his feet. “You saved me. I needed this smoke.”

We both bent for the package at once, bumping heads. I burned his neck with the cigarette, and dropped it.

Standing still, I let him pick it up for me, but instead of handing it to me, he put it under one arm and took my other packages as well. “Was that your last?” he asked.

“Yes. I smoked so many at a pub last night,” I said, wondering why I told this to a stranger. He started walking with my packages and my heels skipped over pavement to catch up.

Continue reading “Off kilter”

Confessions

I try to tell you
without warning
tulips
in a Sèvres vase
between us
your face full of care
but you don’t say why
stirring tea
endlessly

If I were brave
you would hear all of it
this plan
concocted in a
twelve-year-old’s
window
(looking out)
what will it take?
glass showering

Our fingers
forming a web
between us
(you lift your hand
to brush hair
off my forehead)
and I shiver
with the notion
of one hundred nights

I trample you
and you ask for more
(assumptions,
predictions)
and this storm
of peach schnapps
the tip of your tongue
lazy and saying
come on

Each day
a new destination
to reach
that sunset with you
still seeing me
armed-
I draw you
into every waking hour
(the way I see you)

Perhaps in time
my solitude
could be interrupted
by your own
sunlight
from somewhere deep
(do you suppose)
it could be you
in the long run