There are wounds sleeping in my desires

Two poems + an invitation

A Wound is not Always Light to Touch

The wound that grows in my body 

is white as a radish's root. 

A wet wad of hospital blankets. 

Ashes of chalk-dust

after it has traced a flower 

on the blackboard. 

Years ago, you sat beside me— 

silent as silverfish in

a river. You stroked the white patches 

of skin on my palm.

Your face was moonlight-white 

against the candle on 

my table. 

In the light of it: 

I could see the blue of your irises, 

squirming.

Do you remember the white syringe? 

A half-torn band-aid?

A box of ghost light pills?

How white is a river 

when moonlight falls into it? 

How white does water grow 

when two cold & lonely bodies 

wade into it—  

leaving no room for even 

an eel to breathe?

Nocturne

Long ago, when I was a child:

desire was a flower in my hands.

But the desire was the desire

for a ghost. And the flower

was a dead flower.

That is when I knew.

Desire is not the heart of a flower.

It's the worm-gnawed leaves around it.

Look how my tongue wraps these thorns.

Watch how plentiful I grow

when I eat them.

God.

Teach me

how to love myself

in places I haven’t been touched.

Let desire be a singing ram.

A sea blue lily.

The eye that opens when you're dreaming.

That sucks you into its cave.

That lets you forgive yourself.

Wipe the one tear hanging on your lash.