Flow Through Me
I think it’s time to get a little older.
Once, when I was eating the tomato half-buried in your hand, licking what was left from the skin of your palm, there were sparks flying in my wrists as I curled around yours. Afterwards, writhing onto a page that dumped me into bed, this is a new Neverland and not Oz, a trial and a coming awake: here, so the word goes, magic is law and I haven’t grown up.
I begin the reconfigurations to alter the newest disaster, ink dripping from a tongue turned to stone: sitting still, standing by myself, weeping out loud, no wall to take the pressure off. I must become some different shape. Here your hazel or green eyes still glare, still whisper, and cry; I know I’m failing so long as I fight. I lift a heavy body up to the sound of your senses. But of course you haven’t come back.
I’m taken to the kneeling floor, in front of you, flinging my verses at your feet. I can make a pedestal that isn’t so high, that doesn’t take you away. First, let me say…let me into the corona of a passion again. Then, finger the silence to a different tune, to the depth of your breathing. I still want more than memories. I want them today.
I have so many things to say, so many things I didn’t write. Now the lilacs and elms are as black as the sky. Whatever it is that flows through me, it isn’t daylight. At…
