I asked if you wanted
to walk on the water with me
and in a manner of speaking you
said yes. We walked on water
and no crime was committed, except
your heart beat faster than your
step and pulled you
under.
Now, with my hand still
cradled in your palms, you
are under and you see yourself
becoming lagan. You want the sea
as bed, but I see you under
the thin skin of water, I see you
growing fins. The seabed is too far
to fall, my love. You will be
swimming fathoms before you
can sleep.
Now with my hand
still in your palms, come up
for air or go under, it is all
the same. Now with the water
seeping into your pores, let me go.
Or don’t let me go. It is all
the same.
You are
a walker on water.
You are
what ocean’s adore.
If you were not looking, I would not
be here. Caught in the cross
fire of defiance and desperation, I
am poet, sorry I am poet, speaking
my own demons like they’re yours,
my own anger like it scores an
orange alert on the universal
terror scale. You should be worried,
I want to say, but words
open and close at the behest of
clicking fingers and I
am small. My friend, I am small.
If you were not looking, I would
almost have nothing to say.
Defiance and desperation, fuck you
but please listen – this pain, bear
witness, this is flesh that’s bruised, this
is blood this is the news of my life, Listen.
I am not your bastion, I am not
court jester, I am not a man
with teachings, I am not
an open wound. You are not
my therapy. Sorry but I am
a poet and these are my words
and you have words and you have bruises
and this is a fire between us now.
Sit. See us
warming our hands.