Jazeki

Pink rising in your cheeks like the first blush of sun on the horizon.

You speak of my love in flowers before slipping away, like leaves in an icy wind.

Oh, to be ivy crawling across endless wall, filling cracks, grooving with daylight on an eternal sundial Oh, to have an understanding of who I’m supposed to be, to outlast the constant construct that’s been laid before me—time upon time and year upon year Oh, to take a moment to myself to speak of things beyond my self and your self, knowing piecemeal thoughts without hesitation Oh, to come to terms with the concept of we, us who are we and what does this mean if I turn my head in your general direction with a careful smile Oh, but what am I waiting for with discipline self-imposed what would it hurt to shake loose of expectations for a night at least, to walk barefoot into the soft caress of freedom Oh, whose hearts are these, what peace offering made in exchange for existing hand in affectionate hand whose lines have I memorized in the glow of lantern fires and what kindling have I gathered Oh, are you also enamored with pinwheels endlessly spinning, or is it just the

which aspect of Spring would you prefer— the garden party sunny-side, heaped over with hollandaise, a quick deviling, a three-day course in the art of proper table manners and what constitutes Sunday best or would you rather a controlled burn, a reckoning, a shade off the idea of a haint blue door, hares split between the country house and the city house because no bunny’s perfect anymore too many flies in the honey traps now too many chickies in this basket (what a case, a suit to follow)

Sometimes, I feel like a basement cricket: stumbling blindly through the dark with half a leg to stand on. I call out misshapen songs to no one in particular—I guess it doesn’t matter. They warrant no response. And still, I try over and over until my voice gives way to the rusted keen of a door hinge on its way out. This heart held potential (once) as a home for wandering gods. Such a shame it's been condemned.

do you need clothes for this fine occasion or is it just like everything else— optional, really do you need a map for this rancid place, an oar for this river, or a coin for your good eye have you made your offer yet, transubstantiated, dipped your fingers knuckle-deep to test the waters and the wounds how many marks are enough how red the eyes how solemn the expression are you of the earth or of the flesh, a cunning thing with darkened feet and hands do you weep over the too-dark sky no noise pollution tonight as your colors run are you too busy celebrating to realize the consequences what comes next this cage is big enough for two are you leaning on an old wound, relying too heavily on a crutch that you’ve outgrown who will you cut from your good graces what neck deserves a red ribbon have you thought of what comes next a light in the darkness or a great silence: the hibernation of civilization

Tie your hair at the nape of your neck and suddenly you’re a lion in need of taming: all whips and teeth and fancy hoops to jump through (inhumane, really, but you were always good at performing tricks for enthralled audiences looking to be entertained: a wink here, a grin there, a witticism cleverly placed) And you’ve never really known anything outside of this gilded cage, comfy and starving for attention and I could just press myself against your ribs, generalize your beats per minute, take a bow and lead you out into the sequined moment to a raucous din of applause and whistles, roses thrown It’s all in my head, really, because there’s no one ever there—ever watching our conversation, our transfiguration into something other than ourselves on the backslide of an argument And I realize I’m no good at taming as I watch you cock your head and stalk out of the room, dragging some sliver of me through the doorway on your way out And the dishes rattle along to the furious beat of the

And if I could, I’d bottle you up, an ornamental fish on display for all to see I’d freeze you in place, turn you into a diorama of the best parts of life: past, present, future painted against a blue splash of something I’d slip between laser sphynxes focused on the lemon wedge of sunlight distilled into that holy cup I’d sigh at that sliver of a moon dangling on the sweet edge of night, curl around some lovely maypole with eyes fixed on a distant shadow Up the cosmic pillars go with infinity on the brain