Back to It

A poetry student told me

I should get back to writing,

and there’s no metaphor

in that anecdote.

So as January strangles my space heaters,

I numbly miss keys retyping my handwriting,

probably something along the lines of

infatuation

or despise

or learning my mistake from the last girl

or, and let me pause, death.

I am twenty-four.

But maybe I find an atypical remark,

like how the girl and I met

because I starting courting her girlfriend,

how someone might only tell us apart by our sexes

since I’ve already given her my name,

but nonetheless, I have to mention those fucking green eyes

brighter than the green I’m accustomed

because I know you’ve been there before.

My voice cannot be contained in conversation.

3 million words still cannot bridge my understanding.

I guess I’ll try again in the next poem.

Without Gods or Walls

If only

I could have sent you

someone else’s words with

someone else’s music conveying

someone else’s feelings while

claiming them as my own.

If only

day were as night.

If only

some god or

the walls could have let me

know how to

love your name for more than

its evenness,

your laugh more than its

frequent sincerity,

your eyes their deceptive

frailty.

But I could do without

these gods or

these walls bringing us apart

or taking us together.

If only we

were not clothed

as children.

I wanted to say

you rouse in me

something effeminate,

something where the words

come down but don’t

come out

right.

So though it was unintended,

like how your eyes went beyond green

when your pupils dilated,

thank you and

have a lovely day.

Piano keys

and lovely voices,

wasted hours and

wasted pen-strokes,

wasted obsession

again. Alone again,

naturally

when I walk through my

dark backyard

on a Saturday.

Precious ugly days

reminding me of every ordinary name

belonging to droll people who

accept their flaws or

recite boring lies.