may 2011

damn baryshnikov

at most six hours have tangled in my hair
and though my memory is utter shit
i can still pinpoint the exact positions of:

my chair
your hipbone
the slant of sun that flecked your darkness
(you put a cullen to shame)

the swath of grass grudgingly green
before us and

inside me, the noose that hung taut,
choking blessedly the need to touch you
that made my hands shake–

and i smiled and i witted and i laughed
i screamed and i thrashed and i why did you leave me?’d

and then you left,
and life resumed.

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eat your

guard it jealously,
for they will smell its openness
for miles, their nostrils will dilate
in olfactory orgasm at the pungence of its need,
their ears sharp to its throbs and mewls

keep it close, for their mouths will salivate
for its novelty. they hunger for the unsoiled
and defilement is a rite of passage–

the sweetness of ruin makes their tongues ache
with longing.

hold it tight, at all risk– your opportunity cost is only
the swell-sweet bright arc of pain in bold strokes
across the white of your ribcage,
the gray of your brain
and the raw pink of your innards (which, i warn you,
will twist if you fail to protect what is yours)–
i promise you, pollock will forgive in time

you will be safe,
if only you hide it away
tuck it, bury it deep
and by all means– by any means,
let no one near.

summer, she taunts me

i am waiting for the rain;
impatient for the plop of cold wet
on my face and arms, for frantic flight
indoors, for racing like children to the windows
to watch it pour

impatient for cobalt run through with white
and coal clouds stomping mightily
overhead, for temper tantrums of thunder
and the ground to slake its thirst–
to become full, soaked, saturated
like my heart with the sound–

i am waiting for rain to come,
praying for a storm,
hoping for a torrent

and please god, won’t you oblige?

part two

thick lashes and let-me eyes:
sleepy poppin n’ lockin prince
in semidarkness, pretending clandestine
through permitted encounters
on the bedroom floor, in the car,
beneath the fattest fucking full moon in history–

on the living room sofa, and at last
in my arms, in my own bed that still smells like you
if i tilt my head a certain way,

o soft king-child, sensuous jester,
nails in my shoulders and teeth in my neck

i could have–
might have–
would have loved you,

had i let me

double entendre

i do not suit either yourself
or your purposes; i know not which,
only that i feel lifted away

from you and laid aside, across the bed
to stare as you pull on your clothes
you pull on your socks, shoes
you pull on the face you wear that first pulled me into you
that made it easy for me to pull you into me,

that face that breaks when i touch you.

(yours does not, though. it is stone,
unlike his, and the cracks in his face
taught me to begrudge the smoothness of yours.)

you never hurt me
(although you did)
and i do not want this to be a heartbreak story
because i am not broken.
we never forged anything to break

(with you, though, i begged for something
anything, and you told me…you didn’t even tell me no,
you told me nothing)

and so i hold nothing against you
but the fact that you laid me aside
so abrupt and so cleanly–
without bruising, without scars,
without even pain to hold on to

(and you left me scars with no meaning
anymore, i am written all over with lines
i’ve only just realized have no signature.
you refused to leave the one thing i wanted
on me forever: your fucking name.
all i want is to know you were there)

and what now?
(and what now?)

i cannot fault baryshnikov

clean, like you left me
on the bed untouched
for the sake of faithfulness–
leaving me without trust,
without blind belief, without
you;

once the sleepy poppin
n’ lockin dark prince of
thick lashes and let-me eyes
in semidarkness,

once the flicker of hazelnut cream-scented
candles turning the cliche of your
chocolate silk skin
into a laughless joke spiced
with the kind of tenderness
i cried to suppress;

once the first magnetized
memory of africa smoldering
heat like black sun underneath my blanket,
large hands, delicate hips,
chiaroscuro and a study in contrasts–
white attitude, black skin, dark attitude,
light outlook:

once a lover,
now a dazed concept already let go
a new low in my climate,
once the sole reason for the clench of my thighs
as my clit stirred painful and voracious
to abuse;

now reduced to rapid blinking,
new loneliness
and– popping my safe-sex cherry
amid blushes beneath brown cheeks
and imagined stares:

a useless box
of thirty-six condoms
in my top drawer.

criminal justice, amateur

if i could punish you for anything
of all things you might have done
it would be now when i am aching
openly, blooming ever slow open
before you, when nerve cells stir
and yawn themselves awake
each inch of my skin a square mile of
languid gaping pores with soft thundering
hunger vibrating signals toward the sun
that is you: respond. approach. appease,

cool the flush making its nervous way up
through to my calloused fingertips–
i know they are not soft, or smooth
but it gives them better traction
and i need it, trying to hold on to you.

anything– i would punish you
with bruising kisses, with embraces
which crush hearts together to wine–
with the hoarse whisper of your name
paper-thin on my tongue, a wafer of wanting

i would punish you with all this i feel for you,
if i could