Fourteen, always in the bedroom
brushing my hair too much
too much time naked
swooningReligious services at the magazine
rack. Saying each of your
names under my breath scanning
glossy covers for your faces
swimming over tables of contents
invoking
scared shitless I'll find one or all of you
and me with only $4 in my pocket
and no photographs of any
of you on my walls.
I clip only articles compiling what
to anyone else could be cold
research. I keep the pages in safe
drawers fold & unfold them swallowing
each word when I'm ready when I'm
strong enough to take the distance
between need and flesh that
I already know will kill me if
I say it aloud.Someday I will make that voyage with
a man who exists & try not to despise
his accessibility I will bring on
the bliss but hold back from giving
away the ruby too soon from
too soon becoming my other body
the lighter one
the one I learned I had.
Someday after fourteen I will cross over.
In two years, in six & sixteen
tonight, as I cup you
in my hand
and wait
This is the highest form of compliment
I can pay --
here on my solitary stretch of road
from the highway to home.
You, this man I have never met
but whose face I have seen.
You fit yourself beneath my skin
without words or name.My hands take the wheel lightly.
I drum your fingers to the radio song.
I half-smile at the funny thing
that just crossed your mind.How I love my face,
its expressions,
resting in your body.If your thighs are hot from the sun,
I move them.
Your neck stiff,
I stretch it toward each of your shoulders --
a dancer's careful arch.I am your single-handed urging
of the steering wheel
into a sharp, left turn.
Once finished,
safely on a new road,
I lift your hand to my lips
and truly believe
that if this car crashes,
I will not be alone.
Two separate universes. A miracle
happens between the two.
His is an ecstasy�full, realized,
grounded.
Hers, riding far from this place, speaks
another language, another
name.
And the magic yet happens!
The two move apart, cluster
into themselves.
Who will welcome the new world,
its birthlight?
He says it barely
exists. Let it prove itself first.
For her, it is a bastard tongue evolved
from one word. And it is hers.
I keep my body
smaller than
my soul
just so there will be
no question.
But there always is.
One, dumb test.
One painfully, exhausting
push
to see what I'll do,
say.
Someone inevitably thinks he can
pick me up,
spin me around,
toss me away.
If he looked closely
he'd see how heavy
I am.
How all of his
muscles working together
could not budge me.
Like the woman trapped
under the car
who lifted it --
the whole thing --
off herself because she had to
in order to survive,
my strength is
quiet;
you wouldn't know
it was there.
Unless you tried
to lift me.