I want you to know
That I am not trying to make love to you
I get why you might assume that
When I recite these poems
About making. And loving.
But each day, they bleed out of me, these
poems, caught between the rafters
of a single sunbeam in my cracking attic,
poetry, made of dishwashing and
warm, soapy hands, and the way she held
my hips against the sink basin, poetry,
the leaning tree I used to climb
every day, even though
my mother told me not to,
It had already been struck by lightning
twice, and was starting to be charred,
Inside, but I still climbed it
poetry, that makes magic out of the mundane,
Can’t you see? I write this poetry
so I can get struck by lightning again,
and sifting through the ashes,
finally, discover,
not how to make love to you,
but how to love myself
like I did, back then.
No comments:
Post a Comment