Good morning desert (poem)
Chelsea, we will never agree where to live because I want my arms to be gnarled, reaching Joshua-tree trunks, want my fingers to grasp orange sun every set.
We will agree to spin through the night, agree to greet the blinding hues; to say “hello sun,” after we’ve watched the milky rotation shiver past, disco casting soft points on our faces.
And you, you’d insist we go to Berlin. The city’s monuments, and the dark corners of clubs that are your monuments, where you pray to booming voices from goddesses and gods who’s names I don’t know.
Part I. (poem)
You are here and I am home. Wait to let out light, to swallow. Iris as parted lips. Grab, wild, at shoulders. Trace the lengths of our soft edges to our elbows, to our knees, and back. You kiss my toes and it’s not a cliché. I spider my fingers over the top of your head because I know. As far as I can tell your mouth appeared one evening in front of me at a brewery in Fruitvale. Between train tracks and wailing and beams and breath and breath. As far as you can tell, I grew at your feet. When you are waiting and don’t realize. You turn over wet stones in my palms, capture the writhe underneath. I turned myself into a whisper because I thought I was a ghost. 3am, 4pm, 7:30am. Pacific sunset, stroke of midnight. 11:11. You feel the moon. Tell me I am the tide. We tie our wrists with ribbons; cut them free.
This poem is published in Issue 15 of Unbroken Journal.
Poetry reading: “Part I.” and “Faith”
“Part I.” and “Faith” performed for Quiet Lightning’s anniversary show in San Francisco, on Dec 1st, 2017.
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