for you? That I would take you there? The splash

of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube?"

And rains

And rains.

But there is a sky above the rain,

Nothing can rot the sky.

Earth has turned to mud. What of it?

The heart of the planet is made of fire, of ardent sun.”

I would, even if I had to adapt one, even if I had to make one up just for her. 'Gets away from what, though?'

'From her fairy godmother. From the happy ending that isn’t really happy at all. Please have her get out and run off the page altogether, to somewhere secret where words like happy and good will never find her.'

'You don’t want her to be happy and good?'

'I’m not sure what’s really meant by happy and good. I would like her to be free. Now. Please begin.'"

He laughed. When he looked at him, with that often flirtatious head-tilt, the latter wasn’t sure if that was cynicism or pain tinging that half-smile.

'A bleeding heart. Bleeding hearts are as clean as that death could go. But you tell me, how many times can a person die?'

To him, there wasn’t birth and death; there was what lied between the two—that was how many times a person could die. He knew there were millions upon millions of ways to die; the most painful of those deaths was when one repeatedly died while they were alive. And he hoped, from the depth of his heart, he would never get a taste of what death felt like while still being alive.

'Three types, infinite times. There’s the death of the body,' he began, unwavering in gaze and voice. And he could swear he flinched at that. 'The death of the heart, and the death of the soul.'"

And a curse

To feel everything

So very deeply.”

He slams his glass down on the table, his jaw clenched, patience burning to ash. He's had too much to drink, the alcohol master of his tongue as he says, "You're one to talk about fair weather love."

He purses his lips and slings his elbow onto the table. "You have something you want to say?"

He lets his lips lift into a sharp smile, devoid of any grace, and shrugs.

He scowls and inches forward, leaning on the table. "You want to talk fair weather love? When a person breaks all their promises at the first sign of trouble? Love is supposed to brave the storm. Together." 

He rolls his eyes and fights the dizziness at the action. "And when you had nothing to hold onto anymore, you let everything turn to hate."

"What else am I supposed to do?"

This is bad, he realizes, the rest of the table fading from his vision. All he sees is him, all he hears is him, all he feels is the dull ache of his heart that he only now understands he never faced, never healed. This is bad, he cannot control his mouth. "You're supposed to hold on when all hope is gone. Even all alone. Even when you're hated. Even when there's no second chances. When you hold on by yourself, that's a lasting love. That was never fair weather love."

His face contorts, anger and confusion and vulnerability warring for dominance. "What does that mean?"

His eyes widen and he presses his lips together. He said too much. He looks away and exhales deeply. "I'm going to get going," he says, pushing his chair back.

"What does that mean," he says again, softer, urgent and pleading.

He doesn't answer, grabbing his coat and walking away.

knelt down inside me, asking

          to be spared."

call it: he understands how bad habits begin.

call it: he feels like he’s going to choke on yellow-stained teeth.

call it: he feels like jetsam.

call it: his brain and body feel like they’re bound by threads as thin as strands of hair, and only by threads as thin as strands of hair.

call it: it feels as if, as cliché as it is, that he’s so exhausted that he’s a step from shutting down.

call it: he hopes, if that happens, that his heart goes first."

surrounded by a forest.

Look, my eyes are not

your eyes.

You move through me like rain heard

from another country.

Yes, you have a country.

Someday, they will find it

while searching for lost ships . . .

Once, I fell in love

during a slow-motion car crash.

We looked so peaceful, the cigarette floating from his lips

as our heads whip-lashed back

into the dream & all

was forgiven.

Because what you heard, or will hear, is true: I wrote

a better world onto the page

& watched the fire take it back.

Something was always burning.

Do you understand? I closed my mouth

but could still taste the ash

because my eyes were open.

From men, I learned to praise the thickness of walls.

From women,

I learned to praise.

If you are given my body, put it down.

If you are given anything

be sure to leave no tracks in the snow.

Know that I never chose

which way the seasons turned. That it was always October

in my throat.

& you: every leaf

refusing to rust.

Quick. Can you see the red dark shifting?

This means I am touching you. This means

you are not alone—even

as you are not.

If you get there before me, if you think

of nothing

& my face appears rippling

like a torn flag—turn back.

Turn back & find the book

I left us, filled

with all the colors of the sky

forgotten by gravediggers.

Use it. Use it to prove how the stars

were always what we believed

they were: the exit-wounds

of every

misfired word.

     were never holy

only beautiful

     enough

to be found

     with a hook

in your mouth
     water shook
like sparks
     as they pulled
you up
     & sometimes

your hand
     is all you have
to hold
     yourself
to this world
     because it’s

the sound
     not the prayer
that enters
     the thunder not
the lightning
     that wakes you

in lonely midnight
     sheets holy
water smeared
     between your thighs
where no man
     ever drowned

from too much
     thirst & when
is the cumshot not
     an articulation
of chewed stars
     go ahead—lift

the sugar-
     crusted thumb
& teach
     the tongue
of unbridled
     nourishment

to be lost in
     an image
is to find within it
     a door so close
your eyes

     & open reach

down with every rib
     humming
the desperation
     of unstruck
piano keys

     some call this being

human some call this
     walking but
you already know
     it’s the briefest form
of flight yes even
     the saints

remember this
     the if under every
utterance
     beneath
the breath brimmed
     like cherry blossoms

foaming into no one’s
     springtime
how often these lines
     resemble claw marks
of your brothers
     being dragged

away from you
     you whose name
not heard
     by the ear
but the smallest bones
    in the graves you

who ignite the april air
     with all your petals’
here here here who
     twist through

barbedwired light
     despite knowing

how color beckons
      decapitation
i reach down
     looking for you
in american dirt
     in towns with names

like hope
      celebration
success & sweet
      lips like money
laramie jasper
      & sanford towns

whose trees know
     the weight of history
can bend their branches
     to breaking
lines whose roots burrow
     through stones

& hard facts
      gathering
the memory of rust
      & iron
mandibles
      & amethyst yes

touch yourself
      like this part
the softest wound’s
      unhealable
hunger
      after all

the lord cut you
      here
to remind us

      where he came from
pin this antlered
     body back

to earth
      cry out

until the dark fluents
     each faceless
beast banished
     from the ark

as you scrape the salt
      off the cunt-cock
& call it

      daylight
don’t

      be afraid

to be this
      illuminated
to be so bright
      & empty
the bullets pass
      right through

 

you
      thinking
they have reached
     the sky
as you press
     your hand

to a blood-warm
      body
like a word

      being nailed
to its meaning
     & lives

‘But it isn’t quite the same thing, is it? We’re speaking of some of the world’s poorest people. The doctors have a responsibility as Africans,’ Alexa said. ‘Life isn’t fair, really. If they have the privilege of that medical degree then it comes with a responsibility to help their people.’

‘I see. I don’t suppose any of us should have that responsibility for the blighted towns in the north of England?’ Mark said.”

But losing verbs, that was a part of dying.

Everyone is terrified of some aspect of dying, he told himself. And it wasn’t the ceasing to exist that made Jeongguk shiver the most; it was the lead up, the part of dying you could do without ever closing your eyes. Losing the ability to– yes. Losing the strength to– yes. Losing the way verbs feel in your chest when you know they’re beating there, strong. Yes.

Losing nouns was a study in don’t. Don’t have, don’t hold, don’t go.

Losing verbs, in contrast, was a study in can’t.

And that was worse.

my heart) i am never without it (anywhere

i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want

no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

You think I haven’t seen the same look on your face?

The closest I’ve ever been to the Garden of Eden is the genesis on the battlefield when the shrapnel’s still falling like hail on a tin roof. You look at me with those blue eyes all hot and electric in your face, blood on your cheek, soot smudged over your nose. Bone of my bones. Were you taken from my rib? You must have been, or maybe I was made from yours. And God damn, I want it. I want back inside you. I want you now, same as I wanted you before, prettier than hell even with a bloodied nose and split knuckles. Don’t care you were smaller. Liked it, even — same as I like you this way too. You make me hungry. You understand? You make me hungry. That mouth pink like spun sugar, though it doesn’t stop you from talking fit to cut anyone down to bits with your angry words. A spitfire since you learned how to speak, and I’ll tell you something, it’s hell to love a fighter.

Anyway, Jesus — I shouldn’t even be thinking it, much less writing it down. I used to love you so sweet, the way kids love, the way I was supposed to. Then it turned greedy and true. If there’s any Heaven that’s fit for me it’d be all your pale skin under my hands for the rest of eternity. I wouldn’t need anything else. Not food or drink or sleep. Just my hands on you and your sweet love-sounds.

I think it’s fit I take it to the grave. Wouldn’t make you any happier. In fact it’d do nothing but put you in danger — that ain’t something I want. It’s another story I tell myself, I guess. That I’m being noble and doing it for you, when really I’m just being scared, and can’t do it to myself.