‘Disagreements’

I recall hot purple

tears

cliff-diving and

ricocheting

off craggy

cheeks

as my feet

took me places

in my apartment

that I felt as if

I had

never

truly

been before.

.

You made choking,

wet

pops

in your

throat

and could not look directly

at

anything.

.

All the

psychoanalysis

was

killing us.

.

I was

regurgitating

the poisonous

serpent

to get it out,

and you were

swallowing

the snake

in order

to make it

dis

ap

p

e

a

r

.

.

Absurdly,

I thought:

forgiveness

is like

a prickly

pear.

.

The words we

exhumed

bent grotesquely

as we

imbued them

with

new life,

and we

_w

___a

_l

___l

_e

d

them

in

with bricks

of burnt,

acid reflux

anger—

interweaving

and interlocking

with Brunelleschian

precision.

.

Could they

last

longer,

too?

.

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Quiet

Quiet,

quiet,

we do not

care

about

your insecurities;

only lift us up

when you triumph

and do not

overburden us

with what it

means

to fail

in your

particular

flavor.

.

You have such

eloquence;

you say a

thing

in your

l.i.m.b.s.

just

exactly

right.

.

Oh, but the words

of the playwright

_____f.

_lo.

____w.

through you

so

_sur.

___rep.

_ti.

___tious.

___ly…

.

I almost

for.

got.

myself

in your

velvet

melody.

.

Sing to me,

dance for me,

speak to me,

lie to me;

lie to me;

lie to me.

.

.

Quiet,

quiet,

.

lie to me,

please,

.

quiet,

quiet.

.

.

.

.

The Strain Before the Sound

I like to write a thing that
no one else will claim;
like maybe it’s too
ordinary
or like
a poem
or a moment
slipped by
quicker
than you were
able to
determine
whether
it was
noteworthy
or not;

That’s what loving you
is like:

the noteworthy
moments
taste
just like
the others
at first,
but the
sweetness
creeps in
the back door
when
no one’s
looking
and blooms
on your
tongue
in rememberance
like askew smiles
of diffidence.

Recall the
feeling you get
when you see a
bow being pulled
across strings;
just before
striking
sparks
from them,
you can see
the tendons
rippling against
the skin–
the antepenultimate
breath of
nightingales’
melodious
Lydian
songs;

And what
I am
struggling
to say
is:

That’s what
touching you
is like:

the strain
before
the sound.

Give me
a shaded
grove
o’ercrowded
with hanging trees
and a lament
and I will
weave a flower
in the air
for you:

lilacs
like I imagine
you
to be.

Lilacs, though,
in the fragility
of youth,
vapors
preceding
the first
opening of their
star-blooms:

the strain
before
the sound.