“We have loved different people, knelt at different graves,
prayed at different altars.”

I described my most recent
bout of obsession.
I understand confession.
I’m Catholic.
In the corner with the
bandeau top and jean jacket,
medicinal fingers curved into claws,
the parting lips like a slow
gun draw.
I’m holding the gaze: eyes are big and brown
and dead set on yours.
The chewed straw in my hand;
bad polish job
that reaches
across blocks to grab at it–
the way I see the way I
move through you.
Shrink at my own
grandiosity.
I thought I was bigger than this.
I’m sensitive.
Make a pact to never talk again.

“What a fertile experience you are having,”
she said through the receiver
after I told her I demanded public humiliation
for what I demand.
I’m Catholic.
I’d rather have the stuff
you seem to be having:
drifting cottonwood blossoms in
your Earl Gray,
a sobering conversation with
your reflection,
mountains in the viewfinder,
a paying job you
earned and
no guilt about needs            

What I have:
a beggar’s bruise on my knees,
three groveling letters in
pithy titles or
rhetorical questions
in a way that makes no sound,
a new boyfriend in the clip
something to fuck with
so I can move past one slip
that left me shaking in my
ignominious song,
the bottom of your eyes,
echoes of absence,
nothing of my exes,
and
impregnable hurts that I birth,
covet like
unfucked sons to show off
when I run into you again
and you’re still not ready for words.
I see the grin of a horizon.

Is love the short space between
two wants? Where am
I? What is
us?

#2

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