NEW

​

i have not learned how to stop being the wax center of my poems

because i am still learning

how to kiss my own lips and how to knead my hands

into pools of comfort

to pour over my brow. there are questions which i try to answer still

while my body plays catch up

with my wants.

maybe the next poem will

be the one that tells me

what i'm afraid to hear,

a poem as the scene

of recovery or a poem

the flavor of a partner

or a poem stretched like old skin

waiting for my return.

A BLUEBIRD​

​

there is a man who has lost his name
i take his shame and wear it

through
the night,
my new evening gown.

we do not call each other

in ways which are recognizable.
my bluebird reaches for the sky,

it never speaks of the cities

or the streets

or the heart

which teaches itself
through misremembering.

i know there were times
when you were in love
and you made heaven

from spit and drifting dreams.

there you will find
what you forgot to call yourself,

not here,
never here.