Poetry
KINGDOM
Grow old when I’ll need you to die and fight the waves until waves are air, you
floating like petals on calm rivers. We’ve been
one
and born many, experiencing your shaking lights across the sky visible only between 5 and 7. It was just a sliver. Your mother will tell you.
We danced to borrowed music from the Americas and poor town’s country roads carrying it through small windows and pea-wilted Venetians. We’ve been lied to both times the pineta caught on fire. And that’s how you know of fire and death, child. That’s how you know the things I can recount and all that was through us,
like wind eating itself, the cosmos’ fullness appearing blue and empty.
Of the waters, I don’t know, but when you’ll ask me of sand I’ll tell you stories I’ve heard
standing on the rocks of bays. Too small to call them anything that cannot be owned.
We own
It’s a game. That’s why
I see you play & we’ll both accept my body being erased from the story. & we’ll shoot cowboys’ bullets from fingers and when I’ll teach you how to punch, you’ll give me side-eye.
