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Blood Fat

How can I love


and you,

and you



I’ve got one heart

but parts of me are racing the lightning striking three or four different skies.


In one,

the pulsating beats of a nightly rhythm wreak havoc on the stars,

burning in self-made jars that trap a sliver of the sun’s light.


And in one,

the longest distance between the two poles stretch up and out towards nothing,

except for a sound, a scream, a rejection of how full it once used to be.


And in one,

day breaks one long breath in two

and tomorrow sets its talons firmly on the fabric of misguided whispers once exchanged in the night.


How can I love you tonight?


When you fry words on a skillet and they bubble and blister

and torrent through my veins like blood fat,

and you snatch my memories as if they are yours for taking and ruin them with the truth.


You lose yourself in the space between our limbs

and when we do not touch, do not embrace, do not even face the same direction


we talk

and we talk

and we talk

in arrows that shoot and spit fire, that land their aim.


We both cry for them,

the little Lego versions of ourselves that we can’t unhook,

their tiny hands that spread like Banyan roots,

ready to wave us off on our new adventures

and they smile

but we cry

because we can’t change one damn thing.


How can I love you tonight?


Without posterity you are the last dandelion in a June carpet,

and I pluck you,

I fuck you,

and you resign from the whiplash

while I perpetrate my ideals.


You count the rings on my spine for days

to desist to list my qualities on your fingertips.

Your mouth hovers like rosary beads over my head

and I know you’ve chronicled every cell, every wound,

every singular, fleeting tomb of my breath

so that you may forget.


All this.

Unfinished and ungraspable

except in our debauched reconstruction for time that can never return because it runs footless in our dreams.


How can I love you tonight?


If absence fills the rooms I saunter through

and the profane vacancy in my eyes holds no sight

for the good and bad in others,

and I’ve no desire to touch the prickly faces of those who list me as return addressee

and send me packages strung with verses

that interpret your silence.

How can I love them tonight?