The Birthday

We took the weekend
to celebrate, to renew, to rejoice.
You chose the place, 
planned the trip, and rolled with the detours
showing me the reborn You
and teaching me, more than ever,
about extraordinary love.
I think we are both more certain now
that You have coughed up demons and 
expelled anxieties for us both—
it's good to have You back; it's
good to have You new.

Your birthday was yesterday; it was a week ago
water came down; and water came up
You drowned Your sorrows
and You were bathed by heaven

Things I think

Harpsichord and strings, all the Bachs
the trees dance to the vigorous strains
where was I

I missed so much, kids
you have to give them everything when they're young, but
trauma

I wasn't around violence
just a constant broken heart
and a void so big it crushed me.

What about the laundry
it doesn't matter at all
now

So warm outside, so
cold inside
So cold outside, so
warm inside

I want a violin
I want a camera
chimera

I want You
to want better, to want me
to want You, want Us, them

I thought I saw You just now
driving up, I take a sip
and see a collection of delivered notes

Chilly Down, chilly brass
Excuse me, hello
lost your head, the body will mind

Water falls, the waterfall
Niagara, here we come, come
hell or high water

Go in go deeper
and I see that You do
what I do

You so long and strong and
broken and wonderful and
hopeless, and me

Short-round, he used to call me
and it's true, I'm short and
my thoughts go around and stray

I want to say so much and the difficulty
is so great, but I see how You do
and I feel myself slowly waking

It's 3:33 and I wish
I wish I wish I wish
I wish

My Waking Dream

The dress was late. It should have been here by now, so I'm wearing just my underclothes, but there are people all around—
  "Is this confidence?" she asked. "No, it's just too hot in here."—

I'm clutching a bunch of  aubergine, golf-ball sized fruits on long stems. I can feel their weight as they bob and sway with my movements. I'm supposed to address the crowd, but the shame of the missing dress is too much, and I begin to cry. 

You ran down stairs to get me, and then we were out in the crisp and clean and cold night. I remember the moon in Your eyes.

I dropped the fruits back there, and I can see their stain on the path behind me. Flickering lights make me turn. Something is shining, white and blue with pale green at the edges, but it is too bright to see who or what. But we are neither of us afraid. 

The light gellifies, and begins to blob around (gegenuber).

I hear You cry out.

Reject It

Remember when
You rejected it—
all the anxiety
and worry
and hurt
and dissatisfaction
and rage
and haunting—

You rejected it
screamed 
and cried
and yelled it away, and it worked—
but, the cleansing isn't done. 

Cleansing, catharsis, clarify
purify, clean and jerk
it's work, I know—
I know, when I say so, but
"No", You say, I don't;
but I have been here and 
I have been there—

Reject it, 
eject it, 
pull the fucker by it's forsaken roots
and tell it 
You are 
Not
It's 
Slave.

Rise Victorious from the ashes, 
glorious to behold, be held
Be Healed. 

Friday Morning Drive

a tiny, wild bunny
watching the hu-men unearthing
its burrow.
a Laotian in Motion
streaming bright blue and black speeding
its pride.
a Slocombe lavender afro
teasing my eyes toward delving
its nimbus. 

Hospital Cure: Part Two

    It's been entirely too long, and I should have done this long ago; but , confusion and mixed feelings, distance and dreams, life and You, all of it has served to remove from me the feelings of excitement and wonder, the possibilities that I began to see are now bitterly retracted. But, I will try to remember.

  Two days, sixteen hours was all we had. Even less than that. And  what happened? I was turned on, fondled, flirted with and excited. But none of that lasted. In the moments we were together there was a pulling at me, a desire to give and receive. In the moments between it seemed unreal, and unlikely.

  He came back in the next morning; I thought it was all over already, but he smiled at me just the way he had before and came over to the bed. "How was your night?" Quiet, boring, lonely. You hadn't been there, You had to stay home so You could sleep and be rested for work the next day. "How are you feeling today?" "Sore, and thirsty." "I'll tell you what. After I make rounds I'll come back and give you a massage. What would you like to drink?" "Could I have a cup of ice, and a Sprite Zero?" He laughed a little, "Sure." About an hour later he was back again. I had drifted off to sleep again, and I woke to find him leaning over me a bit, a banana and red jello in hand. "What's this?" "They call it a banana; I though you might like some breakfast, and if you eat this I won't have to give you a potassium pill." "Those are the big fuckers, right?" "Yeah, they're really big." He said he had to take care of some things, but that he hadn't forgotten the promised massage. I ate the banana and jello in the relative silence of the room, wondering about You, and relieved to be eating something. You were at work by now. What were You doing? What did You think I was doing? Do you imagine me there there alone, sleeping or reading or watching tv or talking to nurses when You are gone. Usually I am alone and asleep, letting the medications seep in and steal away the hours until it's time to go.

  And then he was there again—another shot of morphine ready— hands rubbing together to warm them before he touched me. I turned sideways on the bed again, waiting for the pain relief, and perhaps more. His hands were strong and the pressure he exerted was intoxicating. I leaned my head back a little, and he leaned in to my neck, breathing and whispering in my ear, perhaps discerning my weaknesses—my weakness. Why was I letting him do this? I couldn't tell myself that it was just a friendly massage. I wanted it, wanted more, wanted him, but at the same time I felt deceitful and wrong. He was married; neither You nor his wife had any idea about what was happening, and that made me feel terrible, but the touch was so good, and this had never happened to me before— I gave in to my weakness for just a little bit more, but still fearing that it was all too far, and too much, and unforgivable. His hands massaged lower on my back, and around my hips, then made their way back up to my shoulders and arms and chest, just barely touching my breasts. I swayed with the movements and moaned with the ministrations, and then I heard him say something like "I'm getting my dick sucked." Wait, what?

  He went to the door and checked the hall, then he came back to the bedside and pulled his scrubs down a little, and there, behold, was his cock. Brown and erect, with a scent of fabric softener and musk, and just inches away from my face...this was all too fast for me. I couldn't let myself go that far, even with the drowsiness and medications, I knew, I knew, but still I could almost feel my tongue stretching forward to lick and kiss and feel the tumescent flesh filling my small mouth...no, no. "I'm sorry, I can't." "Come on, I'll be quick..."  His hand came down to my shorts, searching for the warmest secret spot. I backed away, "I'm sorry. I just can't. It's not that I'm not very tempted by you, and your cock is beautiful, but I can't do this like this." "What do you mean, like this?" I took a deep breath and tried to formulate what I wanted to say. "Have you heard of polyamory?"   

  He cocked his head a little, and his eyebrows and his pants went up. "What does that mean?" "Well, it means that my fiancee and I have an agreement. It means that we are open to seeing other people, and that under the right circumstances we might develop other, interests. Maybe, I don't know, maybe we could get together for coffee, or something, and discuss the possibility of this happening another way?" "My relationship doesn't work that way. I can't develop feelings for you." By this time the cock had disappeared back into his pants. "Oh, well..." He took a deep breath and let it out in an explosive expletive. He stretched his arms up over his head, his shirt raising to reveal his stomach, and then he brought this arms down and around in circle-stretches. "I'd better go. I'll come check on you in a little while."  "Ok."

  So there it, mostly, is. What I remember. I saw him two more times, briefly, as he administered my medications, but there was no more flirting. He still looked me in the eyes, and maybe, maybe there was a sort of regret there, but what sort I can't say. He didn't say good-bye when his shift ended; he just walked out and away. And now, as I've told You over and over, I don't know what it meant for him. For me, the two weeks after, I could still think about him and smile and wonder if maybe, somewhere, somebody, would be right—but, then, You are right, and so I don't know how to be, or feel, or think, or do.

   A few days after being released I wrote him a letter, as well as writing to one of the other nurses who was very kind (but that is another story). I don't know if he got it. But I wanted to tell him at least that for a little while he made me feel something I hadn't experienced in a very long time, and I thanked him for that—and the red jello. That I hoped everything went well for him, and if ever found his way back to the college, he should stop by and say hello.

  I don't think I'll ever see him again, and indeed, even in my mind, his face and voice fade. One day he won't be there at all.

  

Fine, or not

  "I'll be fine," He says, and walks out the door.
(as I write this, I am notified—a message from Him, but not really, only a repeat, no emoji in sight)

   I think of the torn shower curtain from this morning—not just torn, but shredded, the Great Cat having ripped it apart after the long pole failed.

  I think of His tread of late, heavy and swaying like a wounded, angry, defensive beast—it is no wonder You say the ladder is coming away.

  I think of Him and me and us—