I have found myself in sumptuous excesses that wring the senses
with pleasure, in small things that delight my girl’s soul, that inspires
small hands to clap in delight, that wrinkles the upturned nose sweetly.
Carry On My Wayward Son, A Lullaby443958 plays
~ Michelle K. The Truth About Growing Up A Woman
A lovely and simply way of making one’s own baths more sumptuous, or giving thoughtful gifts.
The blue world traveled thrice over, and buckets blushing to the brim with fallen stars,
the corals of every brightest hue, the dampness of mountains,
the low gravity of diamond dust and the intangible glory of daybreak—
all this, encompassed in my two small hands, with bitten nails
and speckled by ink and paint,
I would have given, all of this, thoughtlessly and seamlessly delivered
like the final violent thrust of birth, wet and warm into your embrace:
all of this, all of this, this that I have never known and wanted to discover
in your presence and by that presence’s grace.
All of that, I have been made to forget, and to know anew,
having had traveled waters of bluest blue, of the bluest silvers and greens, too
having wished upon stars you will never grieve to see plummet,
having swum near those ocean castles of the lilliputian dead,
whose bodies stack in colorful catacomb arrays,
having climbed alone and bruised, bloody and triumphant to every new height
and tempering in slow heat my own birth-bloody loves, new and diamond slick
making of my life daybreaks of the darkest solitude:
this, all of this, I now endow to you— all this,
this that you have left me to by leaving me to forget you.
Naked now, with the sacred enmity betwixt my soul and my mortal flesh
keening with its high colors, I desire amnesty to nestle on my lips
like a kiss, soft and pearled, with the motion of the universe within it.
Unfetter me from my patterns and guardedness with the chafing touch of steel
and awake in me the rawness of my little soul, of the open eyes, of the need
that calls forth agony and pleasure, that measures both desire and desire to feed.
Lacking the one way ticket for my return to Italian shores
gnarled with black boulders and laced with foam and ocean spray,
I once settled into the same wild abyssmal grey of your eyes,
as ospreys do onto those cresting waves, with intent to feed until content,
and found instead myself prey to your hungers,
to your petulant smiles and nervous habits, and anxious tears.
Among the raptors of the world, you bear talons fit for the snatching tendencies
of your steel tipped words, and your crowding wings, which choke
all that your predatory graces do dictate.
You are darting yellow eyed, and yet forgetful of the sorrows that drove
me to those shores to begin with,
that forced me farther from my nest.
I have not coveted your lover, nor loved what you have coveted,
nor find the strength to love or covet,
nor even move to make further defense of my own lost repose.
You have proven to be restless even within deadly chase:
you carry with you in flight your eccentric jealousy, sparked by
suspicion, and the memory of your loss, but leave me be,
Your chronic fear has bidden you take much of what I have held dearly,
though over time I have but listened on in empathy, open to receive
though you have stolen discreetly from me,
and made carrion the white body of my first love with sharp gossip,
I grieved only at your frailty.
Here, at least, forced from cotton-dappled nest
I make my final bequest: keep the harshness of your hatred for those
who deserve it, and do not inflict on me in your petty rages
what I have never earned.
In my return to that distant home of my sorrow, I will honor you,
and honor even your rejections, small as they may be—
you, huntress, I know have never loved me,
but you and I know doubly well how well I love, and how foolishly,
but I have said too much, in this farewell— go, and leave me be.
For the roughness of your hands as you tethered mine,
and hewed open my body, you know so little of the tenderness of
which I am capable, and nothing of the world enclosed in only my mind.
And for all that I have come to require pain, it is the humiliation of having
had to suffer for yours that I cannot bear to be made less than I am.
I will give the willingness of my want and the desperation of my love
to all but those who must make me kneel to deserve it:
though my body is an altar, knees like velvet pews in spreading aisles,
my body a Bible to those who allow me to worship and love as I will,
you have never done else but lay hellfire in my mouth
like a wafer indissoluble, as punishment, without possibility or gentility.
The roof of my mouth tears like the rafters of temples under storm water
with the words you have made me swallow
like bile from an ancient rotting mouth, and I am tired and sore,
tongue left limp under the weight of the words I have never said.
I say now, wasted with my old sorrowed distaste, all that I could not
and yet I am wordless in weakness. The brand you leave, worse that even
heresy, is that you have remade me
in your image.
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