Make this pilgrimage with me one more time,
gnarled feet and transient hearts
treading towards that final, ineffable
expanse of sacred, a solitary temple
unfurling across impossible lengths,
aquamarine reliquary of nameless bones
and corroded vessels. We will go,
like so many other foreign homes
with oars and rope in hand,
the litany of names glittering on our lips
and an X marking the zenith
of our surest, remembered hope.
I can already see us there ma belle,
the swell of water up to our waists
a hint of wisteria curling over the waves,
running our hands over their faces
and calling tenderly their names
with every crash and cry that wrecks
the thallassic landscape, anchored
in the shallow end of the deepest chasm
that we conquered, once,
before we had the world to lose-
When the gasp of tears
gets the best of you
and you’re rocked by the
impending loss and chasm,
when you’re undone in the parts
where it counts and torn
at the knees and throat,
bleeding into the folded
corners of roadmaps and photographs,
my love, I promise you’re
still heard. It’s not alright,
and I won’t tell you it is,
but here in this moment
where our hands collapse
together, and the prodigal
sunlight settles in your hair,
to pull you up from the gravel,
You’ll make it that much farther
and just a few steps more-
To the one who needs to hear it most. Hang in there, dear one.
At the whim of the hourglass
voluptuous swell recedes
into the vespertine cinch.
Sand mixed with wine
sliding into void
wicked epicurean sticking to the glass.
In the locket of my heart
a gallery of purloined
and faded faces.
Yours, I cannot bring
myself to confine
within the clasped metal door.
Here on Saturn’s auriferous doorstep I lay a rabbit-heart offering,
palpitating hope and passion’s timeless fever; I slay each vein
and ligament and photograph and bridge in a terrible burn
of penultimate illumination, cinders mounting upon holy stone.
The devoured hours rise in black plumes of diasporic ruin,
and I am kneeling in the grey refuse of this single death.
I whisper prayers onto every ember until I’ve blown away the smoke
and make sure that you, of all my fleeting treasures, turn softly in your sleep.
On the cornerstone of resolution
I carve our names into marble edifice.
Hands slim and feathered with ash
like a pair of nervous birds,
prone to slip and tremble.
Our sun-blessed hour follows
me into the night, inverse shadow
a cape of light that holds its warmth.
tender and unfolding
with all the shyness of a new-fledged
butterfly that landed on my shoulder.
I wanted to turn my head
delight in the artistry of your wings,
but I was scared
to crumple the velveteen folios
So I closed my eyes and sensed
the tremulous wing-beat
and was glad wanderlust
long enough for you
to mistake my skin for an erythrismal blossom.
Words strung carefully, gently
with almost-selfless intention
and sorrowful inflection
they are ill-fitted to this time.
Confessionals hung on
my tongue but I bit down
because God forbid the sound
rattle your veins and urge you away.
Hope bloomed in
my throat but I swallowed hard
because for all the reason
we have to sing, those petal-faced glories
are out of season.
There is a time for shared silence
a time for abundant thoughts aloud
a time for sun-blessed hours
to hold both in the golden stretch.
When the day has turned her face
and the stars unveil their steady gleam,
he is there.
Listening patiently to every cacophony
and every chronic heartache.
He knows by the dimness
of the constellations
what heaviness my heart holds.
We are an unlikely cluster
and altogether an iridescent wonder.
Our anguished darknesses
no longer shiver alone-
there burns a new light
in their cosmic shadows.
for shifting orbits
and restless stars.
I fear that otherwise
we would never have crossed
living in parallel rooms
and apathetic harmony.
Our jubilant showers of laughter
are the moons reflecting
a greater golden shine,
the cynosure of our meager galaxy.
I forever bless the grace
that drew its luminescence
to our divine proximity.