When the heat of the day
is being cooked up by the night preceding
I ask what writing has to do with suffering.
He asks what writing has to do
with creating or understanding.
We are both selfish.
Why do we crush things down
when the universe is flying apart?
It must be the dramatic absence left
by star death that tricks us.
Heartbeats lurch into my head.
Thick plates of ice crash
fish still alive shudder in the crumbles.
When I think of extracting my obsession
from its utter diffusion in my body
it would be soft
as melting wax
thick as milk.
To write is to show that I think
there is something worthy inside me.
We found each other by chance.
We found each other by chance
though we could only have found each other.
I was too much.
I was a part of the noise in his head
that he wanted to silence.
And the noise he made in my head
he wanted that back too.
I was using him to tell about myself
to feel alive.
My letters are a loupe on my heart
a heart that is changeable and self-serving.
Perhaps you, reader, are my intercessor.
I am offering these words to you
though I know the offering
is also an attempt to claim
and take for keeping. You can resent this
but I can flex the part of me
that was trained by subjection
this routine of convincing you of my beauty
ahead of your seeing me in the world.
I know that you can only tell if something belongs
when it tricks you
into looking like it belongs.
I can go ahead and give you the still shock
the death-bright forest
the starling outside the window
that squeals for the chains of a swing set.