my lover's nest
Oh to lay in a sunflower field on summer evenings picturing what colour your room is, your
bed and the bed spread, silk or cashmere or cotton and the women who sat there folding their
arms and then unfolding them as they watched you tiptoe your way to the bathroom, as they
watched you forget your god, as you ran your fingers along their pelvis.
They didn’t drape you in velvet. Let me.
Do you become holier each time you drag your nails into everything you touch, shoulders,
spine, thighs, foggy evenings, into everything you love, my ribs, your cat’s fluffy tail, my
grave? Do you stop loving once your nails sink into them? There are red marks all over my
chest but you never touched me.
You burned me.
Class is too subjective of a matter to take into account when my obsession meets your
unmalleable weak bones and my wounds open wide enough sucking me into an abyss that
looks like a grave or at least smells like it, like mud, like rotting flesh, like camphor, where
we sit across each other and you still don’t see me.
You know when you are reading Andrea Gibson’s poems and you can’t help but cry because
it’s so beautiful? That’s how it is when you talk, that’s how I want to paint you in these
poems, fiercely, in violent screams, in first heartbreaks, in the fall of Icarus, in the first burn
of alcohol, yet you would still be the gentlest person to ever walk on the face of this earth.
Now summer is gone. Bring death to me.
13 February, 2021