Absurdity
The amount of love I hold for him is absurd.
The human body contains approximately 1.5 gallons of blood,
and at least 1.6 gallons of mine is laced with tiny crystal hearts,
each lit up with pictures of his lopsided grin, his uneven teeth,
and that little freckle dotted on his upper lip
and oh, geeze, here I go again.
The amount of love I hold for him is absurd.
And that’s really what I do: hold it. I’m not allowed
to give it to him, anymore, and really, was I allowed
in the first place? Probably not, but human hearts
tend to have brains of their own. Or maybe they have direct lines
to the brain; the heart dials in extension 13 and ring ring,
calls in a favor: let’s fall in love with this one, c’mon, he’s
the best friend with the perfect boyish look,
this thing practically writes itself.
The amount of love I hold for him is absurd.
Holding love, I am now qualified to say, sucks. It stagnates
and festers square in the middle of your chest, and we all know
that infection sets in when things are too still. We also know,
most of us from experience, that infections cause swelling, and we’ve
already established there’s not much room left for anything in my body
because I’ve got more love in my blood than I have any business holding.
So, the love stagnating in my chest just grows and grows with nowhere to go,
no one to give it to, to release it on, and it presses up against my already-too-full
veins and threatens to make me combust. Sometimes,
instead, it comes leaking out of my face. Just a little.
The amount of love I hold for him is absurd.
It sneaks up via my varicose veins to my brain
where it sets up a slideshow of times when I gave him love
and he took it—when it had a place to go and the natural order of things
was right. It plays flickering slides of when I used my mouth
and he used his and they met, clumsily, perfectly, tasting alcohol
and smelling leather. And then it plays pictures I’ve never seen, invented moments
of him as a kid; what was that mouth doing before I knew him? What did it taste,
the good and the bad? What did it say? What did the voice rushing out of it sound like?
The not-memories make me cry almost as much as the things I do remember.
The innocence of him, the joy of him, the adventure of him, the love of him,
makes my own love stretch outward, expanding in a space
it has no room to grow without being able to pour out.
The amount of love I hold for him is absurd,
and I am just a small space with nowhere for it to go.
Straight Man
takes and takes and takes / but he has never bent down / and took it / When you ask him / it’s always miss me / with that gay shit and you wonder / why it’s manly to take / what you want and womanly / to take what is given to you / Straight Man refuses / to sprawl out ass up / because he knows / it is vulnerable / knows he cannot fight / back / Funny that’s exactly what he likes about the position / when you’re in it / pretty pussy / on display open and waiting / to be conquered by a / Straight Man doesn’t see the problem / with it says he’s just not into it / Wonders why you tense / up when he pushes you over / on the mattress exhibits / you so your face is shoved / into the wrinkled sheet / Straight Man thinks that’s what you want / You’re a woman after all / Don’t you want a Man to take / care of you / Want a man / to hold you with one arm / and grope young(er) girls / with the other / Isn’t that the standard / for a Straight Man / Let him loudly croon / Let him grab you / by the pussy / and don’t ever look him in the eyes / and frown.
Still You
If I think of you at night while lying
next to the love of my life
that’s my business, not yours
not his, though maybe I want it
to be.
I do not hurt over you the same
way, anymore. Before it was burning
and always; now it is an occasional ache
I sit with and let go like a wild bird out
the window.
It always flies back. You do not.
I like to think that because I can manage
the pain, now, I’d be okay if I touched
your face. I like to think I’ll have
that opportunity.
Mostly I am learning how to function
with back-pocket love that will never
go to you but can only ever go to you.
The rest of the time I am just trying
to(be) remember(ed).