the illness spreads:
the platelets push, like dainty fingertips,
along the walls of my veins.
my skin bursts here, reflecting pain there,
all wrapped up and tied
with an apex of mortality, ring
around my restless soul.

when i am dead i suspect
there will be relief, though there is no way
to tell for sure.
when i am dead there might be stars
in the sky, or just stairs,
endless stairs,
leading upwards, nowhere, slowly.

the aches make me shudder, bring skin and joint
and muscle together in a tight little jig.
why aren't you here to hold me?
i shake with grief,
for the loss of a body and the birth of
a new pain, one that rises like bile
and feasts on my throat.
here, the doctor says, placing it gently in my arms,
this was part of you, and now
it is not.

from the iron that bows my shoulders,
the vertical strength in my spine, i have hands now
that do not hesitate to kill.
the weight of that choice is heated and heavy
and sits in my heart,
waiting for attention but patient for consequence.
the yoke was a gift, i think, from someone
who is part of my past,
who no longer knows me at all.
i bear loss like a charm, stitched onto my sleeve and
pumping polluted desires, because
its stamp on my skin grants me entrance.
in the secret places where absolution can be granted,
i leave a little of myself behind.

things that make me feel beautiful
even when i am not:
the ocean, sex, sunshine, the color black,
wind, wine, you telling me i am.
under the stars or summertime sun,
vaguely tipsy on something red or white,
thinking always of your hands
on my legs and your mouth
on my neck and the way you sigh
when i enact my desires on you,
your voice like a balm over wounds,
a polish over damage, a mirror
for only the best of me:
what i can believe i am, with you.

my life is a litany of projects half-finished,
half the tasks checked off of a very long list,
ventures partially begun, plans partly made.
reactionary, i swing only when pitched to
and find myself waiting for peace

caught in the rising tide of your grace,
it is hard not to demonstrate the best of me:
i am generous, gifted, precious
when buoyed by your ocean.

you were a map, an atlas, directions,
a trail and all the guideposts marked along the way.
a lantern at each turning, a sign
at each cross: choices to make, burdens to bear.
it was never easy, the trek was never smooth,
but who could doubt companionship,
or the warmth of affection in bed at night?
they say love gives you hope, or security,
or something-- but i don't think that's true.
hope would have led me to dreaming,
but the path was real under my feet;
security would have made me complacent,
but i never stopped fearing the loss.

it was in a bar somewhere in midtown
when you told the
"you can lead a whore to culture"
joke
and i with my overpriced martini
laughed
that i realized how deep facade can reach.
my ability to pretend
goes well beyond childhood,
extends past imagination into reality:
you are funny;
that was a joke;
this is an experience to be envied.

the martini was mostly old olive juice.

when i come home to pre-slammed doors

and unlocked locks and lightbulbs

shivering on the brink of burning out,

my prayer is not for lack of conflict

or for somehow, extra life to be breathed

into the electric bill. when i come home

to an empty fridge and bugs in the shelves,

to cardboard and crates and cheap furniture,

my prayer is not peace or longevity.

when these days are over, i will be stronger,

i will be safer, i will be more whole,

and i will know how to make peace last.

when you ask

mid-motion, thick in the heat

of your own desire,

when you ask looking down at me

why i am smiling,

with the sweat of you

sliding up my thighs

and the weight of you

pushing me open,

when you ask why i am smiling,

i feel like a legend:

who steals men's souls,

who uses men's energy,

who sells men's morality,

who strands them on islands, alone.

when you ask

close to climax, with my hair

caught in your fist

and my throat

hot against your teeth,

when you ask in a whisper

that suggests more desperate needs,

i feel like a legend:

i am calypso to your odysseus;

i am hera to your jason;

i am mary magdalene, and my story

will cling to you like blood.

most days, i am too tired to be in love.
some days, too angry,
too full of the hurts from self and others
to be able to provide,
still tasting too much iron,
acrid in my mouth, the bloodied words
i spat at you, on my front porch.
most days, i am too tired to be in love,
though some days it is heavier,
sadness like a bathtub
inside my chest, and my heart slips
inch by inch beneath the waterline;
this kind of sadness
takes energy to create, to feel,
to enjoy.
most days i am just too tired to be in love,
to wield the smile and words and touches
and gestures and emotions that it takes
to be seen as loving.
but most days, i am glad it is only exhaustion
and not the ache of anger that hasn't died
or the ease of quietly drowning
that keeps me from you.

i am a desert, parched and shimmering,
full of my own life and motion
without a thought for rain.
i am a river waiting for the waterfall,
weaving my way towards the rapids
in my own winding, methodical manner.
i am a star in the night sky,
blue and perfect, placid and inspiring
and waiting to be admired.
i am an unopened bud, a ripple
in a cool, flat pond, a hawk with eyes
like onyx, waiting for you to dart.
in the natural world i am in the company
of my own soul, coalesced and collected,
reflected and refracted by sunlight and
all the possibilities of myself.

when i woke up today it was dark,

and i didn't bother opening my eyes because

there wouldn't have been anything to look at, anyway. 

the weather outside these walls

means nothing, makes no sound, has no impact,

could not sway me an inch

from this prone position on the side of the bed.

(i leave room for invisible you.)

in the heated haze of the day, when i am

swimming through experiences and emotions

and driving myself through those daily operations,

i am vaguely warmed by friction.

but the core of me lacks pressure, inertia,

desire, desperation, the ability

to turn the everyday into the clarity

of rock-hard love.

whether i have lost something deeply genuine

or have lost the ability to be deeply genuine myself

remains to be seen,

but the loss is insurmountable

without the internal churnings of need.