December 2011

Reassurance

Beckoning sky and a dizzy heart again tonight
my stripped down skin goes reptilian—
arms arming themselves against the tossing air outside
my clothes, a day-old against me, offer
shields too thin for the likes of this skin
I need reassurance tonight.

My grandmother wished me a painless life and sure,
I possess a body with no surgical scars
nesting on me like grave mounds—
However, I do have you,
you, who are inescapable and untreatable and dry
like a throat newly caught in the common cold—
you seem to always be at the back of my tonsils,
no medicine to fight back the adrenaline
you bring with those terribly harsh clear eyes
just have to wait it out I suppose.

And please, tell me, are you that way with every ear when you speak?

Those sweet, rough wounds that climb out of your voice—
because for me, it is like cozy hot stacks of laundry
or the comfortable squeeze of a car braking.
The past is half a room—recently unpacked
where you tossed me into your arms
my unknowing lips and fingertips tracing you like a stencil.
It’s also stairwells, café tables, boiler rooms,
and a leap, hands clasped like champions in mid-air,
into dead color-drained leaves.
Some days my thoughts desperately brush
your name and I pray that you are not another fiction.