I think love to be sleeping in starvation

Running from the mouth and into the poem

And I am, but its residue

 

From your hands needles bloom

And like a seed pressed into a soil

I unfold into a new paragon, pommeled

The water and sunlight that raised me

 

I’m not angry at you for leaving

You and I are simply injured by love

Incensed by each other’s shortcomings

Ha! How about we forgive each other

Today, then lick ourselves

Out of regrets

 

Moonlight, Mother that you are

Please accept us, the boy and I

Into witnessing what I do not know to be love

Sermon us out of our fears, Uhm head first

A door to my right, webbed, stinking with life

 

How many poems do I need to wrestle

Only to say, that my love could be wrong too

That my love is defective at times, even

On the days I choose to adore myself

 

And I am still learning

From all the good that died out of this world

And all the rotten I’ve reaped from other lovers

Would you wield patience for a black boy

Call him by his heart first, before his name

 

My love too ripened

Nevertheless, still unawakened

Still here, breathing yet stagnant, would you

Disarm my fears so they become fierce, and

Charge them with the amusement that is life

 

One thing remains

Although I own a store full of paints

And primers, and stains, and turpentine

And brushes held jointly by my empathy

I am not who I was, and will never be

But it matters that I think of you, often

 

  • Note to self,
  • I wish I was not a coward
  • I wish I could’ve sermon enough bravery
  • To insert the boy and his name here
  • But I am too cowardly, I think

 

And though your love might not be enough

But too much of it

Too much love

Might be

Enough.