THE WEE DYKE

“We grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear, / your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums. / I can make us loved, just say the word.”

“That night, I began to understand that there’s a difference between someone actively trying to harm you and someone’s specific constellation of shortcomings being harmful to you. It’s the difference between an earthquake, inescapable and un-anticipated, tearing everything you’ve built down and stepping into the path of a tornado even as the sirens ring out their warning.”

“I wanted to talk about my father, the therapist wanted to talk about my mother. My father is not speaking to me. My father can be cruel. My father has a temper. But what about your mother? My mother? My mother has cancer.”

“And I did not know how to be in one city and leave my anger in another.”

I lifted my head to look up into the changing leaves, thinking about how at some point, we were all headed home. At some point, all of this, everything and everyone, became memory.

When you’re fifteen, pain skips over reason, aims right for marrow.

Our land moved in grassy waves toward the water. The land ended at the water. Maybe my mother had forgotten this. And kept on walking.

I know now what is tragic isn’t the moment. It is the memory.

At night we told stories about the future with clairvoyant certainty. Our clothing was spectacular and fit to a T. We admired eachother with ferocity.

I wanted Saint Francis, the love of / His animals. The wolf, broken and bleeding— / That was me.

And till today I ask myself: / What divine messenger / gave grandpa grace / gave his words strength / even though today my eyes / see him changed / into an old man.

A kiss on the forehead—erases misery. / I kiss your forehead. / A kiss on the eyes—lifts sleeplessness. / I kiss your eyes. / A kiss on the lips—is a drink of water. / I kiss your lips. / A kiss on the forehead—erases memory.

and love is only and always about the lover not the beloved

In this country he does not know / the word for “drowning” and yells: / “I am diving for the last time!”

And our girls spit in the policeman’s nostrils / It is the spittle of our people freezing in the avenues.