Notes from June II

I have seen I move in seasons.

To arrive at the season of making
I must first learn to live the waiting.
I must live sticky limbs, heavy spine.
I must live desert days.

In my room I have hung
a gold ring
the size of my cupped hands.
It is what I want to go through
when I am able to be
a column of air.

Its edges reveal dark
wood, no shine, but so
do all edges. No matter
how thin the metallic
slice, how pure your
vision, how sacred
what you made.

I have found hard edges
in recent seasons, and frequent
reasons to complain. I have sat
on a chair and been afloat. 
I have wanted not to be.

That season is passing. Mosquitos
line this new air, leave bruises on my
skin, but look how brown my limbs
when they can dangle free.
I greet summer with fruit
and fizzy drinks. I smell
a magnolia over a fence,
swing across a branch to
somewhere new entirely.
It is pleasant to be.

Notes from June I

Again I break my heart.
Again I spill
ash on my wrists.

A lover leaves. The leaves arrive.

Everything is early, even when long
overdue. I must pay my dues.

My head clears slightly, I open
the maps. I read every language.
I learn new things. I learn that
I failed at everything I did not
know. I failed again.

I want to go to the mountains.
Somewhere with a small river.

If I could go with my mother
and my friend, I would say
      what I feel
and they would hear.
Everything might be easy.
Eventually we might
have to say no words
at all. River silence.

For now, everything fails.

Which is to say
we get to try again.
I get to try again.

The words feel flabby,
all stretchy skin and no insides.
Still I say them, six hours down.
Overdue, but I arrive. Here I am,
still writing. Here I am, loving,
even if wrong. Here I am, all
failed and flabby, all hurt skin,
all the same words each time.

Will something break?
Will something grow here?

20: sleep

these days as i near sleep
i have been travelling far
into the dark rooms

there are some
unexpected pleasures, like
i can hear my grandparents
talking to me, asking why
i came down the stairs
to the chilled study,
if i would like a sprite
or pistachios from a bowl?

b-ma frequents each corner
of the house in my memory.
bottom of the stairs
with cake. in the garden
with a hose, always killing
the grass. in the kitchen,
hovering. her voice on
the phone. & sometimes
she sits in the study with him,
her limca-&-lime iced
her snacks salted
her elbow flesh waxy
and the softest thing i knew.

b-pa is only there, in that
study, often alone. he asks
what i am reading. the last
few years he did not hear
but before that he would
listen. his eyes directed.

it is not only pain
to go there anymore.
i hear their voices
if i concentrate
& it feels lucky.

19: on impulse

i have all days now
to analyse the voices

each little blip
with or without
a word

just the slightest
electric jab
of want

& i try to hear it

where does it
come from?
what does it
want for me?

is this one
i should trust?

should i drown it
& move on? should i
instead dive?

18: meditation

i am trying to turn to
a column of air

i want to shed self
as a season

i will not let me touch
my skin with distaste

i cannot escape
this frame of bones

i will hurt
i will gasp in lust

it is what it is
to be a body

but all this needing
i let stain my flesh

all this jitter fear
this flitting

i must sometimes
remove from me

set it gently beside
it is what i have made

from all the days
i have walked through

it is precious
enough to be carried

but lightly instead of
as a weight

and lightly to remove
to breathe free

as a column of air
within all air

17: shiny & wanting

i feel like the wind
that rushes through a window
when i have a body
to long for

somebody to know
to ask from
to give to
to share a too-big smile with

something akin to magic
that pervades
suddenly
the usual fabric of this life

it makes sense, now, to
imagine my chest
abloom
with air, to float here

to feel alternately
wrung out
damply
and then so new & shiny

all of the unseasonable
wild and askful
want in me
finds a way to turn

instead of dissolving
in the dust
and salt
of daily air

16: breath

the self is so often
tiresome

demanding & unyielding

briefly it acquiesces
when I slow the world all down
& hear the heartbeat in my face

my limbs give up easy
& my will is often weak

one thing that has been listening
is the small magic of my breath

15: grumpy

grumpy, i'm grumpy,
take down the walls!
i'm angsty, i'm moody,
i might fuckin bawl!

the restlessness wades
in, it's awful and bleak,
some days i just hate
this shit, sometimes
it's a week!

my insides are goo,
and my head is aflame!
maybe that's not true
but i still feel this shame

singing to myself, though,
even in anger,
it simmers something down so
the shit might not linger

all i've asked of the demons
is that when they leave
they leave me no poison
no scars that won't leave

14: big love

sometimes big love 

starts from somewhere inside 

you, & it rushes outward

to a figure beside

you, and it feels

unbelievable how big

it is, how destined

to fail, how singular

in its rush 

to this figure at this

landscape, the landscape

of your life. look how

sturdy it seems, when all

the love rushes to him. 

your leaves are all

angled his way, you

grow when he shines.

when this big love is stoppered

at it's drain, it feels like a fuckin

punch in the gut, a sudden violence

to your life, its mountains, its fabric

yards, its minute hands turning

onwards, your empty bed, you.

the bigger the love the

bigger the hurt, the

simplest math you have known.

but look here, when there's no one

to have your big love - look how

full you still are, how it pours

out anyway, how there's 

hundreds of smaller

loves you often forget,

your landscape still glowing

with this clarity of love, a rainbow

in your potted plant, a pretty boy

who sings to you, a friend who

always calls. look, this light

upon your face, this endless

light upon your walls.

13: body

for days I do nothing

but tend to the body.

the body needs tending.

sometimes I call it

my body. but that is foolish

too, it is not mine. if anything,

I am its.

with hard fingers I try

to ease the knots in this neck.

I stretch over and over. hear 

everything crack. 

I let this slow day

be a day of clarity.

clarity, I write on my wall.

then pleasure.