There’s a picture of Machu Pichu on my desk. Sometimes when you call I have just bathed. I am listening to a song by a band someone from Maryland sent in a message. The song tells me to lie with you in a park when it’s too hot to believe our bodies are bodies but the breeze between us. I don’t know if you would like me to speak this way. Sometimes you stare at the world as if it just opened and the door was made by your hand. When I follow the breeze between us, I imagine statues until they aren’t statues but mountains and I would ask you to climb them with me, even though I don’t need you to. Sometimes I want to call you coyote. This is what I write when you are not near, wondering if I will remember the dream I had after you made the door which brought the world into my hands before I could calculate how to love you.
Monthly Archives: March 2011
I’m afraid you will hurt me, so I drive the truck
thirty miles without the radio. Rabbits flicker
in and out of the brush. I dare one to come close
enough. I will make myself into someone unhurtable.
What I really want is your openness, how it feels
to be small in a landscape of snakes.
One carried herself to the creek, bulged at the side.
And the sun on the rocks, her bed for the dead
who grow in her a new light. Stronger. A canvas
of fear. I’m afraid you will hurt me. So I shoot her
belly open. It’s no use. The rabbit’s heart already
shut out. The wind comes as if a child in a tent,
her hands in surrender. I cry out, No! You’re the one
who’s supposed to kill me.