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“You couldn’t do better,”

and I have to choke the giggle down

use both hands to squeeze it into a wonder bread slice sized ball

and swallow it

dry and hard/soft as it is.

I want to quote Pet Semetary

use the drawled and overly embellished accent

“sometimes dead

is better.”

So I agree

say I can’t.

not a lie.

I just wonder though

if maybe

somewhere in another life

I have better.

Me? Oh. I’d be ashamed of me too.

But who aside from my own cursed flesh will give this little short life any meaning?

I fell asleep to your music.

I hate how little it meant to you.

These emotions are not mutually exclusively.

Your voice makes me ache.

It makes me flush with anger.

I live with a foot in both of these feelings

all the goddamn time.

There’s no taking the music

no unsinging of the song.

What you have written will remain.

What I have read will be a sliver of scar in my palm

forever.

Forever.

who can speak these words and know what they mean?

Who can write them

make music of it

except you and I?

You made history.

Changed my world.

You think you can unmake the fabric of someone’s

long list of loss and love?

Your name starts every paragraph.

I still have all the music you wrote and didn’t sing

and all the poems you didn’t write but I heard.

In an amethyst lavender dancing drift

of permanent springtime wisteria

I drift

as drifting dreamers do.

Who dreams the dream?

Me, I do.

I dream of you.

And did you find

that intolerably perfect belonging

the aching summer afternoon that blisters you with discomfort

and still you’d say

“I hope this never ends.”

Did you touch it? Did it touch you, in turn?

Did you find all the love

you were looking for?

My little brother bobs on the Strait of Hormuz

I imagine

like a sitting duck

like a yellow downed water baby

floating above the gaping jaws of an indifferent hungry carp.

You were our mother’s third baby,

her youngest

but you little brother

were my first responsibility

my first whispered gratitude

in our shared childhood bedroom

“thank you oh god for not letting me alone here in this intolerable starving dark.”

I do not think of him as fearful

because the idea that I have to be braver than him m

is far more intolerable than the dark.

I do not think of him as fearful

because you really can die from a broken heart

and one of will have to stay through this terrible business.

My little brother afloat in a little rubber boat

like children at play on summer lakes

my little brother

with a birthmark in the middle of his forehead

that faded as he grew

a bullseye

a target

a place we would press with our forefingers

and he would laugh

lean forward to kiss us.

The men who would take his life don’t know that.

They don’t know about our shared birthdays

and bedrooms

and the brief time early on when we were the same height.

He says to mother,

it won’t be another man that takes his life

it’ll be a drone.

What’s the difference

oh god

what’s the difference?

#Iran #bereft #I am fucking bereft

do you think we ever get to put the love that we carry for them down?

Merciful god I hope we don’t.

I never send the letters I write

I never write the letters I think tbh

Personals, Chicago-Sun Times - March 31st, 1981

I grew up suckling at the teat of the gods

I confess it

when I crawl home

as the salmon are want to do

their loins and lives full to bursting

I find that in the dark

(give me a few moments)

my eyes are as sharp as a cat’s

and I see in the dark

like I was made for it.

Above me

the Milky Way shines as clear

as the white line on the far side of the road.

I pour myself a glass of spring water from the tap and

my eyes see the clear mason jar fill

as though the sun shone bright as day.

I spent most of my life afraid of the dark

especially the dark of my childhood home

only lit by a wood fire in the winter

and the company of the moon when it shone

in fuller phases

in the summer.

This dark

so full

so complete

once the bane of my every sleeping moment

now the security blanket of my adulthood.

Is comfort

Simply the familiar

instead of the safe?

I dream we fight, bicker to the point of hatred

and of course we do this in the house I grew up in

we learn to spit each others name out in my childhood kitchen.

Well if that’s how it’s gonna be! I say.

If that’s how you want it! You spit back.

Then go! I cry

and you do, you walk out the front door and down the stairs to the driveway

and I run around to the living room

so I can watch you as you leave down the driveway.

You get into your car and my pride deflates and my heart sinks

“Don’t go!”

I cry and you pause

look up at me with your face curled into a question mark

I run down the stairs and find you and fling myself into the car

“What are we doing?”

I ask

“whats the point of this?

It’s all bullshit”

and for the first time in my memory,

you agree with me

tell me we shouldn’t be fighting.

You start unzipping your fly,

your back curves into the front seat and I can see how badly you need my body

in this quick movement.

Not here, I tell you. Let’s talk first.

So we talk.

We drive.

We find a field of lavender on a hill

lit under tall street lights.

This is where I tell you to lay me down

and you take my lead

for the first time

you let me point the way

and I’m the aching heavy stink of lavender under a full to bursting moon

we make love

and I feel so intensely grateful

that I have made you wait

for forgiveness.

you don’t know me, don't

that bother you something

Fierce? It’d bother me

touching me like a frightened animal touching me

like this will unmake three years painful uncertainty

maybe it does, it will?

this kind of agreement between you and i

this quiet fearful leap

is that what the healing part feels like

when the itching is worst?

You told me I understood nothing of loneliness and I

I who so badly wanted you to have a life and to choose it again and again

told you that I had a comparable pain with a theoretically comparable recovery schedule you could follow.

There is no healing from the kind of painless of unbeing I live.

There’s no absolution for the sins I wish to commit.

I have a quiet nothing attached to my tail

flickering from my wing.

You had no way of knowing

how quietly impossible my life has been.

Beloved

there is nothing for me anywhere.

I march because I can

and wish to have reason to

not because I have any reason

to push forward.

We go together and find a ring

that does not cost a $100

I slip it on and in a heated quick moment

(Because I cannot bear to dwell on anything that means that much to me)

I say

This is it!

And he buys it

and it’s simple and easy and fast,

practical.

We do not talk at lunch afterwards except to remark on the salad dressing.

I have a burning great need to run hard and fast into the last known boundaries of wilderness and disappear from this monotony of questions; questioning.

I have a need to be separated from the quiet nothing of the brisk act of choosing what my future will look like

I need a break!!

From my own complacency.

I drive by your old apartment, can’t stop. No time. No time, between you and I. I drive by your old apartment for a brief moment the sky is on fire. But that’s it. That’s all the time I have all the gas I can spare. If there was more time more gas I’d lay flowers at the side of the road.

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