I.
I am held down by the thick
Weighted curtains quivering with
Dusty stale air of a guest room.
A feeling has grabbed
My sides, fingers on the soft skin film
Between my ribs like a rock climber
Groping the cliff face,
And crushed
The air out of me. I could only squeal.
Sometimes I feel ridiculous, yellow
Plastic chicken squawking at a child’s
Delighted ministrations. Occasionally,
Pain bolts through the gaps in darkness,
Sunlight slanting in where the
Unexpected guest had flung open
The blinds to slice the dim womb
And I have to squeeze my eyes
Shut against the brilliance of pleasure.
II.
At sea, I ride the rolling storm
And forgot to open my eyes.
There is no end in sight and every pitch and
Roll takes the breath out of my lies
Feigning nonchalance. You do not know how
Suddenly and mercilessly my world shrinks
Around you, chiseled ceaselessly
Like a sculptor
Pushing the shape
Out of stone, their raw and loving work
Carving a frozen look of surprise.
The artist always steps back
To admire his work —
Parting the sea with my teeth against the tide,
The perfected figurehead slices through waves
Clean and the sea spray
Rocks the white sails till it is salty as skin.
The decks groan while the skeleton
Rattles apart. Everything is too much.
III.
In my eyes you are searching for something.
I can feel the gaze raking across
Dragging patterns into my skin, your
Pliant sand in the morning light of zen garden.
Easily giving way. Instinctively, you flash your teeth
— did you see something you did not like?
I might have swallowed fairy lights and
Watched it glowing all the way
Down
The underside of my rib cage. You watch me like
A bottle of fireflies, how everything shudders
With a candle light, and you read the insides
Of ruins where secrets have been scrawled
On cave walls. You can read everything
I’ve tried to hide, and on them, you
Add your mark, a scalding handprint, blunt
With a broad brush and a thick stripe
That burns my throat when I
Beg.
IV.
The fourth time, I am drowning and scrabbling for driftwood.
Shoulders become slippery like spilt milk and my palms
Glide over the pale frozen surface, wet from exertion
Or the dark waves full of impulses that cannot be controlled.
My voice is not in my control. It floods the air with
Unspoken words, formed by the lips, heavy in my throat
And drags me further from land. There is nothing of
You I can hold onto without skidding on ice and it reminds me
We have separate hands that return back to their own
Pockets, their own lives, where my greed cannot reach.
Only because we have chosen to meet where the sea
Seeks the darkened sand, melts into the
Tight grip of shoreline, that I can lay listening to the rush and sigh
Of water. The way we look and breathe while drowning.
I cling onto these pocketable moments, and
Hope I am allowed to ask for more.
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