35. [second draft/final draft]
I used to pray every night
and now
I try to just think
I might have to be alone
with my hands lost
their still gestures
watching her nipple
being amazed by its warmth
how many times do we count on our breathing
so we might hold it while passing cemeteries
they too used to pray
now grey solitary flowers
autumn on the fringe of being winter
now the dance steps lost between street corners
now your sister and my grandmother
and now my passive attitude to being scared of it all
the farewell and mortality
how I’ll miss her and them
what it means to kiss you and be gone
now the gestural space to(o) runaway in the dark
now light shards
now I can and now he might never
though plummeting to the ground
fortunate to hold her last few inches of chest and fervor
now heaven
now hell
and definitely just smaller
and now…
Posted 01/01/13
This is an edit of the poem 35., which comes from a larger manuscript.