Subscribe to read this poem
earlier, maybe it was
yesterday, i was going to write
about love. but then i ate and
became sleepy and fell in love
with the narcotic yawn of a midday couch.
i didn’t sleep, as we so often don’t
sleep together, even when that
is what we call it.
no, i expressed my love
for the couch by reading upon it,
just as i would read your faint freckles
and star-spray of moles. the sighing
ocean of your belly. you see?
i’ve done this before,
written of love. at the very least
the love of a woman and
her body, how her gift
of it causes me to fall further
into myself. her body
and how it sparks mine. and
earlier, maybe it was
yesterday, prior to the one-sided love
of a couch and my body, i wanted
to write of love.
there was a pot of soup on
the stove, and it was simmering. and
this brought to mind the *slap*
of teenaged hands on white
young belly, also teenaged. a high
school ritual of sports teams and the way
boys, hen-like, establish order.
and my beautiful young friend,
who even then i barely knew, he
was slapped on his pale belly until
it was red and his pants were
wet. most of the boys,
especially the laughing ones, they
were the most hurt. horrified
at the pain they cause. terrified
that they might let loose an unexpected
choking sob,
and have their own love-filled hearts
tipped over, wetted and howling
red. trampled glowing crimson
blood love red. so of course
i can write to a woman i love, and
remark with revelry about her
body and her touch. but
how do i tell a man who i am
not sure i even now know, how
do i tell him of my love? i am sorry
for your pain and
embarrassment. i am sorry
we are not raised to love
each other gently. you are
beautiful and i do not know how
to tell you this. yesterday, or
maybe it was just earlier,
i wanted to write about how
deep the ocean is. how
there are fish out there that live
hundreds of years. and
there are men all around, faded
and shuffling, who have glowing
crimson lovely red hearts, and
haunted young red welted bellies.
it is difficult for me
to even tell well-known friends
that i love them. that i am lonely
and thin, that i am afraid
of dying and afraid of the passing
time. it was just yesterday!
or maybe only earlier, that i was
simmering soup on a stove and
trying to find a way to tell a man
that i love him. time has just
evaporated from me;
it is evening now and i was tired
of being cold, so turned on the heater.
i worry about the callous ticking
of the electrical meter, i fret about
my meager bank account. i have not
touched a woman in 6 months now,
though i can still trace Her
phantom with my wordless tongue.
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