September 5, 2007 § Leave a comment
(the bigger picture)
Sex: the idea
Sex: the moon
Sex: my grandmother
teeth long and sharp.
I wear them like claws and jewelry.
Once again, I knocked and pleaded
and was not there
when you opened the door, because
Sex: it’s just the mortal flesh,
which we both know is not the point
(masters of our bodies
riding to heaven on a chariot of ideals
Death: the secret audience—
the dinner guest we never ask to leave.
Sex: a handshake
Sex: a contract
Sex: underground catacomb,
mapped once, then abandoned.
I must remember, no matter what I say,
keep the palms exposed on my lap.
No matter what you say,
keep them open where they can be seen
(grasp not even a hair of that golden head)
There is a bigger picture here.
Sex: a loan
Sex: a truce
Sex: the forest clearing
where we first touched.
I smell that dirt now. I had forgotten it
because I am no prophet, and a false poet,
I wouldn’t talk about it—
only flippant stanzas
about violence and grief:
letters drawn in lines so thick
they ran together,
side to side and top to bottom.
Just like raindrops on concrete
gradually turn it all dark gray;
Not even a rivulet to trickle to the ocean.
I have failed you, wildflower boy.
The wind and rain
have torn your white petals
and I berated you for being weak.
But there is hope,
just like a seed, to wash somewhere
where the soil is good
and no hand cups to shield you,
blocking the sun.