I don’t owe you my story.

None of us do. #metoo was powered by the overwhelming rage of wronged people, rage which was never dormant but that has burned in so many hearts for so many years, actively, souring every day and every interaction until it could see the sun. We do not owe you the buried memories, the hidden tears, the shaking hands, the long, bleak nights. We do not owe you our truths, or even the names of our abusers and attackers.

But we have given them in the name of community: so that we could reach out and find others, so that others could find us, and so that together we could show you all the gravity and the breadth of the tragedy we face.

And if you think that survivors can’t see who among us is reading these stories with acceptance or apology versus who is getting off on them—if you think that people who list among their achievements not being dead yet can’t see the remaining predators and all the ways they continue to stalk prey—then you’ll learn, when the magma overflows. No volcano stays quiet, no fault line refuses to rupture.

The intentions of this morning:
grey, and chill, and the promise of your heat
kept quiet under covers that smell like sex.
And I am too restless, too choked with what I leave unsaid
so I leave too, to the grey, still chill of morning concrete
where cigarette smoke twines up my body
lovingly, appreciative of all the places you have touched me.

What do we build? The blueprints are illegible, we spend
hours deciphering their greyed text. We spend hours
face to face reading, trying, editing, rereading, retrying.
I am a simple book. Keep me by your bedside;
I am content.

I am watching your hips sway, your hands expand,
the note of pleasure growing from your eyes to your smile.
I am rapt, wrapped in the glory of attention and attentiveness.
If this were my last dawn, if this lightning strike
was the end of my hurricane season—still I would take your hand,
pull you down the iron stairs, sink us deep
into the receiving earth, green for when the rains begin.
Your fingerprints remain visible, of all
the tired patterns of my skin.

For Sophie on your one year anniversary of sobriety—

There is no benediction that can offer you more grace than what you have already given yourself. 

You are a blessing: your words, your decisions, your actions, your presence. 

Jonah, while still inside the whale, said: what I have promised, I will make good. 

And you have made so much good in the past year. 

May you find your footing on every sidewalk, and on every rocky beach. 

May the stars and the moon and the sun greet you, touch you, inspire you. 

May the music you write prove to you the beauty and the power of your creativity.

May the many labors of your body and your heart and your mind demonstrate your capabilities and all your contributions. 

May the wind coming in off the lake remind you always of your ability to be refreshed, regrowing, revisioning, renewed. 

May the coming year shine with all the good that you make. 

the sensory nearness of you after i've left: ankle deep in wet grass in my backyard, watching quick clouds recover the moon. your mouth and its smiling, gasping, whispering, laughing, twisting in my heart, echoing in the strings of stars that curve above my face. bury me here, in the summer wet, that i will always remember the slick of you between my hands.

below this darling cliff are the rocks of bitter lies and cold years, but i have already leapt the edge, your face and the ghosts that offer to catch me as i fall. glowing, i attract metallic swarms of late season insects to my sides, aphrodite attended by the thoughtless hordes. and whether i am feeding on the insects or the swarm is feeding on me is too close to call, so i drift freely in the humid night, thatching my dreams together with spit. a peace, a calm, your voice, a thousand times your name.

i am not worthy of what you give me; this does not prevent me from asking for more.

your hands on my skin and i am searching, i am lost, lost, lost. your breath is a command and i am following you down, closer to heat, closer to grace. this is one path i know i can find without signs, reading only the direction of your hips. i press my lips to your skin, i would leave a trail of my own, know that i was here, remember my taste. you are the king of my mouth and i am loyal, loyal, loyal.

who could say what you did out there under the moon? i can speak only to the wind i heard, its increase as your voice pitched upward. who could repeat what you cast out into the night sky?

Garish, the color of my lips on your skin, but I am never ashamed of how much I want you. Stark the bruises I leave on your chest: blame the way I need to taste you, grind the texture of you against my tongue. The red of me hunting down the red of you, a chase I cannot see an end for. Hide me in the dark corners of your room, the breath of calm before the rising sun, and let me wrap my arms around you: know me here, where quiet reigns, and there is only the pulse of our blood.

I know you’ve been hurt and my scars show too
But I’ll never let anyone else get to you
She took safety from you, took assurance, took pride
And the memories still tear you up inside
I can see that you’re scared but I need you to know
I’ll give back what was taken, I’m gonna show
You all the ways that I love you, all the ways you can trust
And tonight we’ll find time to focus only on us
And I’ll tell you I love you, and you’ll hear my heart
We can practice this love as our own healing art


I know you’ve been hurt and my scars show too.  I’ll never let anyone else get to you. She took safety from you, took assurance, took pride, and the memories still tear you up inside. I can see that you’re scared but I need you to know: I’ll give back what was taken, I’m gonna show you all the ways that I love you, all the ways you can trust. And tonight we’ll find time to focus only on us: I’ll tell you I love you, and you’ll hear my heart. We can practice this love as our own healing art.

blessed as i am by your presence, i wonder what penance i will pay later. deep in the rapture of your mouth, crossed by the insistence of your thighs, i dread already the wrench of your eventual loss. break my heart before the plagues arrive, abandon me before armageddon; let the cost mete itself from me every day until i am sufficiently contrite. for the taste and touch of you, i would give up every sin.

it rains and i remember the scent of your hair; at night i can think only of the stars in your eyes. wet to the root with adoration for you, i grow new muscles, bud new bones. in the garden i suspect that eve is all of them, instead of either of us. you and i stand waist-deep in the mud as pillars of abstention, flirting in the sunset with history, myth, and mire.

sylvia said that the heart beats i am, but these days mine boasts you are, you are, you are.