Other People Call That Home\
I may have given you the wrong impression
about me when I kissed you rough while in
the middle of me scrambling your eggs—
I was at war. & I was in love.
You were my first kiss
back in the day when I imagined you
cool & fallible, like God. & me, always
shambling onto wonderful things.
Being a person of color I always felt
sorry for myself, because that’s what America
wants. But like America, you
were never mine.
But I was still supposed to say something. Something.
Like: Don’t worry, shorty—I gotchu. Always.
Only I didn’t. I’m one of those who usually
waits to tell you things, important things, like
when you took my hand & placed it over
your belly & said: Here.
Here was my cancer.
& I could’ve said: I don’t care. I just wanna be
where you go. Only I didn’t.
How you murmured against my leg:
You’re all I have, be good to me.
In the neutral gray loneliness, now. It roils
around me like exhaust clouds. A soulless
stomach my only voice. Can stomachs
Only silence. Silence, like round objects
being thrown when no one’s looking. Silent,
like silence pushing against big windows.
Silent, like my voice being thrown into
a darkened room, crying: Some of us
Some of us are afraid.
Some of us are afraid of dying.
Some of us are afraid of human loneliness.
I should’ve said something. Because you
never hear the ones with the secret things
in their eyes, becoming unattainable islands
in a stream where no one lives, with their black
& white landscapes, & sticky hinges
that always catch on the edges
of last night’s dreams.
I should’ve said something. Before our
faces, our love, our secrets were stuffed into a canvas
bag. Before tying it at the neck with climbing rope,
then dropping it high from a bridge & down
into the river.
Other people call that Home, the way
it—we—moved from low to high, high to low.
I’m just grateful to have drunk from that water
for as long as I did.
|Copyright © 1999-2018 Juked|