Monday, May 20, 2013

This Isn't Berlin

I noticed the bald white patch
of painted over brick
where the command
that read
more like a question
used to live
and for a moment I wanted
to cry
until I remembered
the day I snapped the picture
then I just wanted
to find out the penalty
if I happened to get caught
in the middle of the night
dripping heat
and paint and love all over
that wall and myself
responding to stark white...
Is that a no?

Blank space that never
held a place
for taking three girls
out in the middle
of the night to gather
bags of chips
and pints of ice cream
eating disorder
clinics and 3 a.m. vitals
or taking someone's son
covered in scars
and cowering in corners
from a park bench
watching him sleep
in safety
for six weeks or so
before he ran
because stability
felt too uncertain to trust

Did empty remember
sore nipples and soaked
shirt fronts?
What about chemo
and tumors
crushing pain and kisses
on high cheekbones?

What does cleanliness
have to say
about the night
I almost died during sex
or the way she
gathered me in her arms
the cry, the wail,
the undone
doing time to heal
the sharp smack,
the rough bite,
the soft rain
revealed
the climax and the fall?
Love me.
Love me?
Oh, that wall.

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