please stop laughing.
that was a serious question
and not having
an answer
is as good as a ‘no’.
I just want
to know
if you always intend
on more or less
of the same.
That is all.

i wait
for what waiting means
i tongue my teeth
and thread the seams
i wait
while i tell them all
that waiting still
is my call
but really
i wait
while i atrophy
and wonder now
what is wrong with me

the pastor draped in that political robe at the wedding ceremony tonight
was the one who gave me the idea of murder.
That prefabricated rhetoric
he read off of sterile paper
echoed between the beautifully straining arches and
those holy spectrum-colored windows at the church and
I questioned–still question–whether or not he genuinely understood
what he said.

O my love
in that dress
you wear your pain so well

please come back
and learn your name
you can leave it all behind

cause I know who you are
I have known all along

don’t close your eyes
and shut me out
don’t hide away this time

please let me in
let me hear
all that you fear

split in two when you left
was I to blame for this

I don’t know
How much more
I can take

cause I know who you are
I have known all along
yes I know who you are
I love you still

Fear is no place
to find respite
for that lead heavy medicated heart of yours.
It is true, you will find her borders permissive
and easy to cross,
but you will soon learn
Fear is passively inhospitable.
Do not be deceived by convenience.
The caustic land is swept daily
by air stale with concession.
The inhabitants murmur vitriol
through sheepish mouths
and your sleep pestered
by dripping faucets that
pull from an endless reservoir.
No, Fear is no place for you stay.
It is only a land you must honestly visit, but
for Heaven’s sake, do not believe for one minute that
you will find rest within its borders.

i wish you would wait
on the bank
as i wade to the middle–
white knuckles
tears in the mud
like a tree from my childhood.
and i wish i knew the way back to you
so you could fall
over my pickled body
and open me up.

I would collect you in my arms
like a thousand leaves
if holding you meant
what Love means to me

I would steal your pain
and never give it back
save to help you heal
because Love works like that

and as comfort fell
warm against my breast
you would find your tears
giving way to rest

then I would kiss your head
the way our Father shows
that you’re loved my child
and I would have you know

that he calls your name
every time you weep
and collects you in his arms
like a thousand leaves

the lack of color in this scar
does not explain to me
just how badly
the wound still aches.
I thought I was done with this–
my lovegonewrong.
but a single picture–
a cold wind to a single-pane window–
gave way to a foolish cold thought
and I indulged it
and I what if’ed
and I am here
writing another poem about her.

We are all old wounds, right?
Attics full of ‘where
we would have been had
things not turned out so badly’?

I want to have sex with you.
And not the dismissive
steam from a coffee mug kind.
I want the
running-to-the-mailbox-naked-in-the-dark-to-see-if-our-next-movie-arrived
kind.
I want to laugh–
muffled mouth lip-locked–
until we fall into each other
only to break apart moments later
because of that ridiculous story.
You know the one. The clueless old lady
barely walking in her winter cap as she dragged that frozen dog behind her
while it tried to take a shit on the lawn.
Yeah, that kind.
And when we’re through, I want our laughter to start
the adventure all over again.

I pulled anchor
and fixated on the crystal sapphire
and her shaped horizon–
amber and amethyst–
and I forget about this:
only fools go wayward.

Only fools, the Captain calls
and then back on compass we go.
The anchor was for my own protection,
he says. For when you do not trust the wind.
Then he wraps his arm around my shoulders
while we watch the horizon rise and fall beyond the bow.
She is beautiful, we agree. In due time.
Then the breath of God fills the sail. It makes a popping sound.
And we are off.

come pick me up
out by the country road
fallen from the tree
in the bright orange grove

put on a summer dress
a bonnet with a bow
put on your summer shoes
set down that dusty road

come clean and wash me off
a simple brushing will do
come stop for a spell
the summer sun me and you

come peel my skin
with a chewed thumb nail
collect me in your pocket
or that aged tin pail

have I not grown
in all that I can?
a bright orange fruit
round perfect in your hand

so come pick me up
I am sweet on the lips
come find me out
because I am worth the trip

I’d like to believe that
I could actually provide
the moon
should I manage to lasso it.
But to be honest
what I really want
is a girl who simply thinks that I can.

i suppose what makes
the holidays
so sad for many
is that one present
that never really
made it under
the tree.

I have a seashell here
that I’d very much
like to give you.
I found it deep in the sand
with great care and love and
a pregnant possibility
of finding something
worth giving away.
The beach smelled like
salt and the sand
crunched under my feet, and
the great big ocean–
calling, kept calling
“Over here! Over here!”
Oh how perfect! It
scared away the seagulls
while it washed
over and over again
the pretty little shell’s face.
So here, please take. Take.
I have found a seashell
that I’d very much
like to give you.

It feels wrong
to crush and destroy-
utterly dismember even-
the Body between
my teeth. Then
to wash it over my tongue
with the Blood: iron like
wine taste. And well,
to have such
a wonderful thing as Jesus
in this dark
and damp place
that consumes so much…
What a grotesque display
to show that I, most earnestly, remember.