wait, here is a secret act.
Act 6: the act of restraining things
“To live in this world you must be able to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it against your bones
knowing your own life depends on it;
and when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.”
–Mary Oliver
I was in a house with a girlfriend,
packing. we needed to prepare to get out of there.
there was a flood coming
but earlier I was in my hotel room somewhere else,
in a wig that had become my hair I wore it so much,
it was really me and I was thin, I looked thin.
they always say I look thin.
dancing in front of the mirror and not scared
that at any moment I may see a ghost.
I looked like a ghost: pallid face and wan body and I just
moved autonomically. I kept dancing and suddenly in a fit,
I threw myself out into the hallway and ran across
to your door where you were not alone and I thought better of it and
turned back towards my place, where the door was not only unlocked
but slightly ajar, ready to welcome me back.
and it wasn’t until today that I knew the three,
assuredly. their names and what they meant to me.
restraint is an art I intend to master and
a flood was coming, feelings are the secret masters
of me.
I have never been quiet about it.
“dreams #3”
I want this thing gone.
no.
so many years have gone
by and these spines are
razor sharp from your
diamond stone tongue,
growing and
ready to write
you.
“backbones”
there is no difference
between love and liberation
and some were born saints,
you say as you help me
in the mugwort bath,
the smell of rose and geranium
circling the tile.
I plucked the petals and dropped them
one by one for aesthetic.
not free of indulgence, but
patient your fingers make
stems in the water
and I guess I am waiting
for something.
“the swell”
freedom will teach you how
to stay in all new ways.
when we are wayward
or won’t marry them
or stand up when they
crush our necks and they
say the rope is coming next.
we should be
stuffing our faces with the meat they provided,
learning fillet knives,
learning to skin hides,
smiling like shovels and
burying them.
we lack vision.
we just paint our nails black,
and dress like witches,
talk shit;
start shit for derision.
and we keep turning to our men
for forgiveness.
sometimes things just go away
like missing pieces
and love?
I want this thing gone
so I can be empty with my tea
and good ideas,
alone.
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