love to you and

the way you hold a

pencil,     the way you bend and tilt

 

toward what is important, toward

what moves you     and yet holds

 

you in stilled animation,

wonder,     desire;

 

the way your face      opens

to the widest smile, the

 

bluest

laugh,          like music

 

giving in.     love to you and

the granular tender-

 

ness in your eyes, on your

finger   tips, between the     universe

 

of your lips,     the tension of your sighs. this

kind of     love     has no name; it is just a

 

grate   ful   ness to be in the

same world with      you.

every last thing

i don’t know why i looked back

at that possum in the road.

the body looked whole, so it

wasn’t for the gruesome factor.

night creatures intrigue me.

but what i saw was a wide open

mouth, bright red and stretched—

almost inside out—as if caught mid-

shriek. i’ve never seen a mouth like

that; it didn’t belong in the sun: it took

over its body like it was fighting to

hold on to this life with its tiny jaws,

with every last thing it had.

i miss the heartless

moonflower3

wandering around,
looking for something
to pour into, to feel through,
to let glide down the sides
like molten gold, like a woman’s
touch, like a moon-lit hot spring.

it all starts with the missing:
the void that needs to be filled,
that sucks in something i can give;
something i can take;
something i can sustain
for a time.

these borrowed hands,
heart, mouth, mind—strong
in their making—leave me
wanting, paint me with a deep
black-blue i love and hate
and barely push through.

Art: Moonflower, by Bo Olsen

the edges becoming

edges

our first year is our making:

food, language,
mobility, connection.

learning how to use our mouths
to discern something, to really

learn it; to feel its shaking edges against our
breaking gums, against our emerging teeth,

against the squeal of our burgeoning tongues.

we revel to move, to mouth
our way through knowing,

through compelling, through
the telling of our stories as they

crawl, stretch, walk, run, fly into the wide blue.

mine :

this multi-

faceted face

 

naked-birthed

behind the

conflated mask-

space: light-years

 

of oceans of eyes

floating; cavorting;

mourning; storming out

 

of the clay cave

of the hairless head

(still gem-forming)

 

and tri-secting—

 

skeletal embellish-

ments of angry trinity;

fractal dust deserts

furrow-sloping down

 

to precariously perch

their origins atop a full

round of ammunition—

 

a love-mouth begging to be opened;

a soul shell commanding to be filled