word for word

After the thunder rush, in the wide open space
of that moment between us -
I feel the words wandering up my throat.
They come from the sticky honey of joy.
They are only three.
They would tie us together.

We don't know if we want to be tied.
But I must share this sweetness.

I love doing this with you, I tell you,
And my heart widens at the wide truth of that -
intimacy, mother of all pleasure, has been
blooming between us, & I love doing intimacy
with you - and car rides and breakfasts -
you cooking for me & me coming up
behind you to hold you, the full length
of our two creature bodies, pressed up
& warm while outside it pours. Come on,
let's get back into bed. The world has paused.
Nothing makes any sense. Isn't it lovely.

I love doing this with you, life. How many
times yet to fall. How many monsoons,
how many limbs that twine with mine.
Backs yet to discover new scars on.
I am not alone here. There are others.
All heart & guts & ears to the world.
Sometimes their words
line up with mine.
So nothing needs to be said.

it has begun

in the rain

a bowl of oranges. a disco ball.

a cat in a bag. a dusty ashtray.

tree trunk full of little mushrooms.

a purple flower by my purple lighter.

the smiles of strangers, & my faith

now that i know i owe them nothing.

i owe myself - i owe this earth - i owe

ancestors & spirits. i want to live 

my owing life brightly

& with love. i want to pay back

& pay back & pay back 

generously & gladly

by living, by loving

first of all this spirit-vessel.

in the rain this body is moody,

can snuggle for hours. wants

to be kissed in the neck & held

like they are loved. now they know

they are loved. i love them. i hold.

still there is pleasure in the

unfamiliar touch

of another, in iridescent fingernails,

the metal of a lip piercing caught

in a kiss, the serious mouth of one

i might love. i did love, i do love,

i am back to a youth of tossing

love from my basket of love.

have it i have more to give.

but i will not let you take from me.

not now, not irreversibly. 

in the rain i tend

to my kitchen, my corridors,

my balcony garden for hours.

i dig into my compost. i am making

soil, dark & crumbly & rich. 

mud-stained, i nap in the rain,

in a warm hollow in my bed.

here is where it is beginning:

the rest of this, of everything. 

a blink & we are already in it,

in the gluey jelly of this moment,

in the giant steaming pot of time

that never moves & never stills.

there is more to learn & it is

crunchy & delicious to be alive.

& awful & aching. & warm & wet

in this rain. yesterday & tomorrow.

on failing

there are so many zips inside my bag,

& they are all open, like open mouths.

i fumble, try to pull the zipper with two fingers

& i fail, & hurt my little hands, & what is new. 

i fail at loving, at living well, at discipline

& regularity, at tending to this body-boat perfectly.

over & over i fail at perfection, at forgetting, 

at a straight spine, at letting go. i even fail at failing.

the months pile on like yellow leaves at a window,

or dust. nameless and indistinguishable as dust.

occasionally i fail with passion & gusto,

a made-up song on my windstruck lips. 

what else is there to do on this blessed earth,

this blessed & cracked & sticky earth? come

sit with me by a lake or a corner, feed me a berry

& learn how to love me. fail with me & we wouldn't

have lost a thing, we'd be filled with air & float

down the streets, nameless & glad as the dust.