Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else for a change?
I don’t want to go to Harvard
I don’t want to win the Pulitzer Prize
I just want to sit in my bathtub
and think about relationships I will never have
with people I will never meet
and then go lay in my bed
with a magnifying glass
and count all the stitches in my sheets
until I fall asleep
and wake up
to repeat again.
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
You taught me how to live without the rain.
You are thirst and thirst is all I know.
You are sand, wind, sun, and burning sky,
The hottest blue. You blow a breeze and brand
Your breath into my mouth. You reach—then bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
You wrap your name tight around my ribs
And keep me warm. I was born for you.
Above, below, by you, by you surrounded.
I wake to you at dawn. Never break your
Knot. Reach, rise, blow, Sálvame, mi dios,
Trágame, mi tierra. Salva, traga, Break me,
I am bread. I will be the water for your thirst.
they’re falling in love with the ground.
Because I’ve forgotten the geography of a woman’s shoulder, how hard
and brittle in places, how supple and stemlike in others.
Because my desire alone isn’t enough for both of us.
Because if I showed her the stars at night, she might see them as
nothing but light cracking through a frail wall, and I’d have no words to