Here is a mouth marble too large for me to choke on any longer, written to the tune of swiftwater spillways in a rainstorm of spiderweb courage:
You keep talking
about a place I’m supposed to
get excited for,
to save my pennies for,
should be looking forward to
all the comfort there, with its exquisite debts and hard-earned luxuries like
couches, which I suppose are nice but
Have you ever read
the lichen on a sheet of
granite with your fingertips,
searched its syntax for
an origin to the tangle of electricity-addled neurons that got you here
—dancing, terrified, upon a
batholithic monument to futility;
where you come to know gravity
in the verses you sing
under your breath
in an attempt to keep from falling,
in a lingua terra
we cannot write
can only feel, like
Being rained on while swimming or
the silence before a crash?
This is where my soul goes
while you’re talking about couches;
Where it smells like ferns and cinnamon, and
the story is told without words.
I keep waiting for you
to walk up out of the trees, smiling
Please don’t tell me you’ve seen enough of the stars or
That feather pillows are better;
I got all the maps laid out.
We got a million grass-covered hills to lie on and
argue about constellations
until the moon is high enough
to start climbing.
Do you remember what it felt like—
the first time you struck flint to steel
and made fire?
I’ll be in the car.
turned the page with a storm
battering windows in the night.
But in it I saw the
Moonlight framed in cedar
Laughter rising above our heads like the steam circling
upward into the cedar boughs;
words of love hope fear worry reflection connection,
building and weaving
a web stronger than our words
the silent lake
to our communion and our melancholies,
Blues poems written into the pages we hold folded at our chests
like origami birds
while beaming songs
into each others’ lungs.
And all the atoms in our bodies
were born in the hearts of
dying white dwarf stars,
And we feel that;
We feel it all.
And we know the false arch may be as much
as most of us can expect in this life,
but we don’t want
to be ‘the most of us.’
We refuse, we cant
Only the very lucky
discover the keystone, and we are looking and looking and waiting
and singing our souls into the whirlwind.
We are the lucky,
We will it to be so.
And in the mean time
We prop each other up, though not as false arches—
but like these black branches holding up the moonlight,
Framing its stubborn courage as it
Spills light all over the darkness.