The War Poet

There is an urgency, and cynicism, in your disposition,

in the way palms cup – hips with

the weight of everything that was not us atop your shoulders.

 

It stays strange how slickened bodies rhyme

as though couplets; in some thoughtless or thoughtful sonnet

and yet still empty stays my love

and Cox, and Nesbitt, and Oliver

 

this Pacific shares your home, and Atlantic

and these palms could gain no purchase

in your day; my hour

and time is no gift for these fingertips

 

no, just flesh, sin, puckered lips –

such a gift of self-destruction

And falling apart by touch

these entangled souls.

 

and the days where these letters met silence

and the times when these cupped palms remained empty

and the hours between these dampened sheets;

and the immeasurable breaking of this ecstasy;

 

this vulgar love and loss

the keen imagination

the Sun in this lust

this knowledge that our love is borrowed.

 

And the story of our skin remains somebody else’s

and this exotic and slanted curve.

 

And that the names of these heroines still rhyme.

III. Revisiting Shattered Glass. Or, A Love Letter to Moving On and Loving You Still

photo 1

 

There are fights I am not yet ready to raise fists

for and I am not yet ready to stop loving you

but these limbs had grown weary and these hands

are coming undone and these eyes are no metaphor

 

There are words which refuse to find themselves between us,

“I loved you.” “-

I am more afraid to say you hurt me than to keep thinking you don’t or won’t care “-

 

And words abstract our being,

all that we are as poetic license; retone and touch up

until Distance                                                                        is                                                                       warmth

Melt me down to                                                                                        concept,

 

you cannot love in the abstract,

cannot feel in the abstract

Still brand the inside of this mouth your

own and I will bear these contorted crescent moons

 

and watch dawn with me

 

but this silence is not poetic

just prose

and these limbs are not lithe

not smooth, cannot contort and this heart is no acrobat,

 

There is no beauty left in this space

But I see beauty in us, everywhere.