I don’t know why I wrote this, dear reader. Maybe I’m hurting–or something far less dramatic.
I liked the idea of becoming wind–to exist only secondarily. To become the movement of something else, instead of the something else that moves.
Whatever the reason, I wrote this. It means an awful lot to me.
runny egg
I.
it doesn’t confuse me as it should
music, poetry. writing from the I
the life I’ve chosen
to soften my skin the bits
of hair I regard above others and less
than some curled
in fistfulls and cradled on the backs
of necks
more than–or
perhaps just less than lovers I wish for
confusion–to not know
the end with conviction enough
to wait for it
god knows I’ll wait in
pretty agony with skin
wet with some small call to purity
for thumb to press to palm to again
and finally
be unknown to these
I know I will be known
as one undainty indiscretion having
required my voice–small and
slurred “I want nothing
more
than this palm. this thumb. to press
down.” to not know and not know
to purge
the cold
the certain from the body. this feeling
chosen or otherwise by two
crepuscular dawns
who can do nothing–can wait
for time to move
II.
guilt and wishing both
indulgent touching myself
in anticipation of the waiting it isn’t nice
to know
fear–a selfish habit in my hand
soft and wrong and cradled
inside myself. I hate the thought. time
owes me nothing
a dawn
with empty palm and hair full of fingers
I think I will jump.
shock the evil and certain both–a
third more submissive
path. to die
having nothing to say at all
about the knowing.
I will go with time
we will laugh
at certain minds waiting
for us to move
for them. fidgeting
nervous–knowing the end
is embedded there
in the start
III.
time and I grow older
but never old. this is the hand I’ll
hold we will be wind–
being only because something else
moves.
when the air is still we will
be gone.
death and knowing
are not equal certainties. one
is equalizing–neither place
it requires no waiting (if one is proactive)
like bath water warm and
uterine while the other is
agony. inequity. suspension
knee deep and ice cold it cuts
the wrists.
but to jump is sweet and
cean of knowing
atoms
of home
IV.
wistful again. even now searching
for the backs of necks–the
wholeness of a water glass full
and cold
a man. loud shoes. I will
blow in this direction. not quite there
but very much a part of it all. Please
hold out a hand palm up
so I can sit–can rest
on all that I’ve given up
V.
I wonder then
with all I am
and none of what I
was, why we chose
feet
instead of this
funny wind
always there–all
at once and none
at all just a
child
not knowing what
it does and having
at once–all of it
VI.
Oh and I must
go
but if you could–
hold–please hold
a hand to catch
music, poetry, writing
from the I. skin
soft
as a breeze.
I must go.
Infinite love, dear reader.
Rest up.
Girl Seeking Peanut Butter 