She Sees

She sees I’m looking
for love.
And she’s scared.
Scared that someone could
look for love that bad,
that the world could make
someone so hopeful,
though so needy,
held on this cosmic ocean,
a sand grain
whirled before infinity and
annihilation.
She sees the annihilation
that my heart beats
every time she looks at me,
into my eyes,
and she sees all that’s been
lost and all that will be lost.
She’s scared, so she stops
looking and forgets in time.
But then time forgets her
and everything else.

Sometimes At 45

This is a sad poem.
These are sad days these days.
Well, to be honest, these days
are a mix of incredibly fulfilling
and happy days, the happiest
I’ve experienced in my life, but then
sad days from dwelling in the pain
of a breakup, hearing the things
she said, over and over, in my head,
things she said to question my gender,
my legitimacy as a woman, and as a
gay woman — that I was not the real,
authentic deal for her.
So, sometimes I wonder, if I die in my
45th year, would she, wherever she’s at
when she receives the news,
would she breakdown?
Would she tear her living room apart,
smash furniture, throw knickknacks
against the wall until they shattered
into pieces of glass or porcelain?
Or, would she be with friends and drop
to her knees, crumble into their arms
in a sobbing, inconsolable state?
Or, would she just turn to her daughters
in a state of shock and say stoically,
“Nova’s dead”, then breakdown as
they watched her — scared and confused
and hurt themselves?

Or maybe, she simply wouldn’t care?

Scary

It’s a scary thing to admit,

maybe a scary thing to feel,

although physically, it feels

really good to get there.

Often these days, very late at night,

after I’ve done like eight

or nine lines of coke,

I’m able to finally lay there and

feel calm,

feel cool,

feel loved,

forget about you,

forget who you are,

forget that you exist,

forget that you no longer love me,

and then I’m able to

dumbly, mindlessly, numbly,

fall asleep and sleep good,

sleep in peace.

People don’t typically think of

cocaine working this way

and maybe that’s why this is

scary…

that this is what it’s evolved to.

This is what love is to me now.

Found Objects

I found your strap-on harness.
I’m not sure what to do with it.
For a half second I got horny
looking at it,
thinking about how you looked handy
and manly wearing it across your
womanly curves.
You always wear your carpentry toolbelt
with such pride.
Then quickly I got sad and melancholy,
remembering how the last time
you used it on me
I started crying cuz I didn’t feel you were
f**king me with any interest…
then you started crying cuz you felt
critiqued.
I thought about dropping it off on your
front porch,
but I’m not traveling down your street anymore.
Plus, I concluded it would do neither
one of us any good to drop it off at your place.
I can’t keep it cuz not many women
will want to wear a strap-on
that another woman used on me.
I guess there’s maybe some out there
who would,
but I came to the conclusion to throw it
in the trash.

There Again

I won’t go there again.
I won’t.
It will be avoided.
I hate it.
I don’t like having to avoid
a place,
but I will.
The road you live on won’t
exist in my world.
I won’t go by your house
hoping and dreaming and
angry
late at night.
Looking at your window,
knowing the mass of coiled
gold hair mess behind it.
I can’t.
I’ll choose emptiness and
also fullness with strangers,
with the moonlight above
country fields near our town
cuz it is late and I’m lonely
and I drove out there to
breathe the scent of oak trees
instead.
I want your scent, body heat,
curves, accidental brush
of soft skin and your
muffled snores.
Sometimes I’ll blow coke,
lots of it,
and it will comfort me,
a hall of poets and angels
gathered.
But some other nights I won’t.
Sometimes I’ll just lay still
in my bed with the watercolor
painting of midnight on the
walls,
feel my passionate heartbeat,
strong and rigorous but also soft,
and I’ll just be still,
knowing stillness in night
while awake
is sacred.
Us ushering ourselves to the
hall of death.

I want to be tough, but more
importantly,
I want to be honest.
So I will.
That is how I’m going to live.

What I Remember

What I remember from her
is just something visceral.
Something in the body.
Raw. Ancient.
Long life. Sentient. Awake.
Star stuff.
I know we were a shitshow.
Bad words and hurtful things
said, done, and felt
to each other.
But somehow all I remember
is powerful, visceral, psychic,
physical, soulful
feelings.
Well, just a feeling.
One feeling, one unified feeling.
It feels very similar to
sunshine on your skin,
on an early October morning
in Texas,
in autumn of the northern
hemisphere
on Earth.

Do you know the feeling I’m talking
about?
When the sun touches you and
it feels your skin,
it fills your soul.

Some Days Discarded

She knows I’m beautiful now.

Well, becoming more beautiful.

Though she doesn’t care anymore.

She let that kind of feeling go.

But she knows I’m having that

look these days

that others see and think

I’m a delight to look at and experience.

I might bring lust into a room.

There could be lust.

She could see my dark eyes

and my long eyelashes drawn across

the suspended air in stillness, calling

something sultry and sensual,

that dark hair majesty,

there with my cheekbones,

drawing my naughty eyes out

and shining on the naughty thoughts

of other women I see. Who go thinking.

They see me.

I’m seen.

I’m out.

It’s becoming and uncoming

in very much a way it never has before.

She knows I’m beautiful now.

But she doesn’t care anymore.

She can’t.

It would stop her world

and the kind of afternoons

she needs with herself.

Spells In Heartbreak

I set to write the spells in
heartbreak.
The aborted child.
The lost capitalist culture.
The absent love of parents.
The lover whose heart I broke.
The lover who broke my heart.
The abusive father.
The abusive and withholding
partner, and the anger and anxiety
lived towards them.
The two cats who revolutionized
my soul, then lived, created
something joyous,
then died and went away.
The gender I am but in some way
will never wholly be in
other people’s eyes.
The hurtful things said.
The hurtful things heard that
are never surmounted once said.
The living of self that always
carries a crushed something.
The gentle smile I still manage
in soft quiet moments
with myself very still or
across to another’s eyes
who needs my gentle smile.
But I did not write these spells
in word —
I lived and live them.
And I guess they taught and
teach me to
love and love onward
somehow,
in a lifetime, in a life form, in a life
way remade, reformed, and
even revisited.
That is their spell.
That is the spells in heartbreak.

She Is

I can feel a thousand lifetimes

passing through our fingers.

She is a person who would

let a thousand lifetimes

pass through her fingers;

an epoch of love and lovers,

passed over.

She’s done it before,

many times.

I’ve seen it.

And I watch it now.

That’s why I was here again,

to see if things could go

differently.

But they won’t go differently.

She’ll be in this situation again;

it may not be on Earth,

it may be as a woman or as

a man,

it may be as a mom

or as an animal,

but she’ll do this over and

over.

That’s why I leaned in to

love her.