You are no prince riding to my rescue.
The castle is long breached, and I still sleep,
covered over by nettles, or roses–
it does not matter which, as long as there is that sting
to thread blood in cursive across skin,
a language of no, though it is unspoken
and sounded in bloom.
Bring me no roses, as I cannot hold
their color of loss, of remembering
the hot metal stink of what drives us,
I will save myself from them, from us,
from you; broken glass
the only vase I own.
You have become less you
and more an if only.
You are bigger
than the reason I hate Februarys.
You are more than a sound.
you are larger, but lighter
than the sum of your bones
and the shape of your name
adding to a greater absence,
a negative space
where memory should live.
Unripe fruit hangs heavy
on these branches
and bitter as tears
in a throat, unswallowed.
Still, the sun kisses
what can never be sweet
and will never seed anything
forests of it.
We should be boxed
candy everyone wants,
a sweet we give
and pass around,
but say nothing
and be eaten.
There are no words
we can use, when yes
is whore language
and no becomes a knife
in the chest
or acid in the eyes
before they looked elsewhere,
before the legs
so slim and easily broken
choose to walk
when they should have been
At dawn an unbroken
delicate, like this day,
I am spinning in the spin
of unchained polar air,
of the politics of a planet melting
at the tips and freezing
more in the middle
and they call it spin,
they call it science made opinion:
one out of four Americans
does not believe the sky
is past falling and pools at our feet
in a blue groundwater rush
that is half plastic
scrape the mud of it from your boots
I am spun from words
and the planet pirouetting
on its axis. I reel within stars and orbits
and circle some more,
no longer searching
because the truth is less important
than its turn.
I never promised to go where you led
With the blind belief of a burdened beast,
My feet following any path you made.
We are not a fated twining, our threads
Spun and woven to oneness, west and east
Meeting and weaving seamless in a braid.
You, unfit to bridle wildness to tread
Steady and smooth enough to press its feet
Into unbroken ground; ask me to wait,
And I will, forever, and leave unsaid
My resistance to following your lead
Down any road, no matter how well-paved.
I never promised to go where you led;
I will find you, love, my own way, instead.