February 12, 2013

Not bad for Jesus’ age

 
 
 
This work
This work is autistic
It makes you agoraphobic at times
But I wouldn’t trade my intellectual orgasms for the world
I turn ivory towers into scrimshaw
That’s what I do
 
 
And there will be moments
Just moments
When someone close, part of the inner circle, sister or a friend
Will touch my shoulder just so gently
And remind me of another pair of hands
The most beautiful I have ever seen
Or claimed
And this body will reel
Gasp
Dissolve in the quickest crash between memory and a life unlived
Then scoop itself up again
Like a kitten in its mother’s mouth
And continue making scrimshaw out of ivory
Dancing its ass off until it can take no more
 
 
My baby smells like a Christmas tree
His cigarette flickers purple in 87Hz light
He chronicles the secret life of a peninsula
And puts broken things back together
He speaks of me the way I would never speak of myself
And I let him
Because, my God, was there ever anything sexier than a man proud of his woman?
And I am not one to lack
I just seldom hear what I don’t already know
 
 
Come on, universe
We are burning daylight here
There are fish hooks to be baited, tucked in the corner of a kitchen window
A pier that is lonely without the squeak of my yellow Chucks
A house that misses my moans
And a summer dress left behind so that friends could say
“You know what that means? She’s coming back!”
 
 
And so I turned thirty-three.
Not bad for Jesus’ age.