it’s your turn to map out my anxiety

Maybe if you can confound me. Simply and in an open bar, all manner of light locked out, the cloth of night draped over the spaces between your fingers. How many objects still wait to be lightly released from those fingers? Take the dog of the year and make it lick the shame from any white page we have saddened with the conviction of our ink and talents. I will not care how big the secret is, how it breaks away from the weight of my expectations of you. I’ll pretend that the only audible sound is the murmur of white light.

Up to now, and maybe until tomorrow will be, has been, you have been, simply. Being and not showing. Fraught. Brusque. Rhinestone. Amethyst. Pointless. We might sit here as I watch long words drip into your O mouth. Is that a metaphor for my feather in your mouth? We must establish gender first. Sweetgrass. Watercress. Dearth. Lake. Watermelon.

Some words stand next to each other from the music they share, same way flowers on a headstone soon look like they were left there, by a distracted mourner. Conflagration, for instance, is made up of the empty promise for calm and the flag of a new African nation. It’s your turn to map out my anxiety.

If you hold your face against the white light of closed space, simply, with all the windows closed, your make-up on, walls painted so blue they could be in pain – your face looks like a long confrontation of high fantasy, a shower of delicate white powder on the eve of the secret places you are yet to take me.

You could tell me, simply. I am always on the look out for the disappointment of the miracle event we call ready expectation, I could make out your stillness in the murmur of an open bar. It’s possible to pick letters off your emporia lips that might mould softly, simply, than those mud lips, construct what’s left of life from the simplest sigh you let out this morning. Maybe you woke up in a small town or an apartment in the suburbs, maybe a heritage site where you hide the history of your loneliness.

I’m yet to read any mythology, but I’m certain you qualify as a kind of regenerative god of blame. Tell me about your childhood, the day you discovered roads, water, sulphur rainbow, acid rain, towns. Fairy tale.

I know you suffer for Goma and Gaza, a fact that might confound me if I let it. But I am careful not to show it. You want your suffering to be private, why should my confirmation be any less? Or more. Verse.

What I mean to say is: I’ve been waiting at the bus stop for so long when it begins to rain you shelter under my skin.

A child hitting another child is just a long poem, a way of one child knocking to hear the God poem.


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