Angel

You brought a bag of them. Oranges.

The neighbor's mother died and now the trees

are having a party and we are not invited.

The fruit keeps coming. The fruit keeps coming.

You said he can't count. Can't count the branches,

can't count the days, can't count the teeth

in his own skull. He should cut them down,

you thought. Saw through the trunks, let the sap

run like a cut wrist, but who tells a grieving man

to stop? Who tells a man with a blade

and a yard full of ripe bombs what to do?

The oranges are too sweet. They burst in your hands.

You bring them to me and I eat the pulpy light

because what else is there to do with a dead mother

because i asked God to make the feeling go away and he gave me more of it instead

because my mother’s voice cracks sometimes when she says my name and i still can’t be gentle back

because i sat in the shower till the water went cold and counted the tiles and called it baptism even though i knew i didn't deserve it

because i stopped waiting for things to get better and started just waiting

because some days i am so tired of my own body i forget it’s the only house i’ll ever get

because i keep a list in my head of people i’ve let down and i add to it every night

because i think about disappearing the way other people think about vacations

because i kept a blade in my phone case like other people keep a photo of someone they love

because i lied today

that night the sea called to her in its wild fury

a rage she felt as surf roared in endless breaking waves

ankle deep at first it dragged her further into the turmoil

matching her mindset of reckless abandonment, she cared not

a sorrow shed when her seventh tear joined the surging waves

walking deeper, a swirling passage between hidden rocks where a seal observed her

gathered her tears, sweeping her towards shore

a shimmer of bioluminescence

carrying her from the dark waters, a savior, a choice

leaving the sea

staying with her through the night and into forever

two steps back

bitter, cycled trails to track

how can this pain

still linger now

why is my grief

stuck here somehow

when i tell myself,

‘it’s fine, it’s true’

‘i’ve grown, moved on,’

‘i’m happy for you’

i know you don’t care

if it’s through gritted teeth

the simmering acid

our music will never cut out; only whisper when tides are low and chips roll under a table built for fools who prefer wobbly legs

gold in a nutshell was a standard for jittery squirrels when railroads were a concept and hiding your nuts was eighty-five percent of a lost criteria

You have one foot in high school

and another in your grave.

Which will bury you first?

I've defended you

in rooms that turned you away

while you shivered in the monsoon

but you've set the universe ablaze

and now that room

is all the remains.

Everyone else

is drinking to what never was

while I'm sad

for what could have been.

You've spent your life

writing manifestos

in what you claimed was ink

but the words have started to run

like the teardrops

of the wounds

to which you refuse to tend.

I wanted to dedicate

the world's lingering misanthropy

to you

but when I see you

jumping

into infinite landfills

while screaming "victim"

like a child yelling

"fire"

to feel love,

it would be akin

to dropping an atom bomb

on a village

just to get rid of

because my muses lie in the night. 

with the moon. in a darkness that

puts its other senses to uses i can’t 

understand. want a love that will keep

the lights on. revive the wings that 

settle dead in my stomach. i want 

to be happy enough to be away 

from the notebook.

Shivering in cool breezes scented with sweet oranges and the tingle of mint, their shadows stretch and curl into waltzes across your face.

Light refracts in your white-fogged gems, and sometimes I doubt if I can actually see you.

My mind blurs when I look you head on. Consciousness shivering between realities, yours and mine, disconnected. I see your side profile from across cloud-bridges and from behind feathered edges.

My fault, though.

When I look at you only from the corner of my eye, from my own little island. Floating amiss in the darkening blue sky.

And when I stare up from under half-lids, eyelashes cutting the world into wedges.

I hope you know I wonder about you.

About where your wings take you when you're relaxed.

About how you see the world, is it hidden by your gemstone veil? Or do the facets act like magnifying glasses, bringing everything into bright, near painful, clarity?

About your murmured sentences, drifting on the wind, I'm sorry I didn't catch them all.

One day, I'll show you the silver fog that floats off the grass when I wake up early enough, and I'll point to the way the stars chase each other across the galaxy when they think we aren't looking.

Soon, I promise.

When I'm able to read the curling cursive letters the fog paints across my chest, and the stars allow me into their game.

For now, I'll listen.

I've heard them say --

but a dog would love me

like I put the sun

in its sky,

even on my worst days.

When a dog wants to play,

it's like I'm one of its own --

just another friend

to jump and run and pull

with.

Even when a dog is mean,

I know it's afraid,

or has been hurt, before,

or has something

that it needs

to pretect --

A man would love me

for only as long

as i am what he thinks

he wants.

A man plays with me

like I am a toy,

and discards me

when he's worn me out,

or has lost interest.

A man is mean simply

for the joy of being cruel,

or because,

heaven forbid,

I give him not

whatever it is he

feels he is owed --

Men are (not) dogs.

I can trust one of the two

when I look them

in the eyes,

and i find the other so often

has learned, well enough,

how to pretend to care --

I never have to question

the love of a dog.

Men are not dogs,

and they are not filled

with enough majesty

to be called even wolves

in the skin of man --

They are men, and, to me,

that often enough

is reason to be weary,

on its own.

"Thank god I love women."

poetry is the only thing i can’t

do in a hurry. force myself to sit. 

to think, for a change. the words 

are a melody. a slow-moving river. 

a meditation of all the thoughts i must 

write slower than i can speak.