Tuesday, July 26, 2016


he understands the language
of my fingertips when i
cannot say the pain
for the hashtags of my
brothers and sisters slain
by blue badges
and my words cannot escape
from the knot guards
in my throat;
when i’ve lost the
connection from my
brain to most of my body
and water finds its way to
my eyes at unexpected times.

when i am mourning,
waiting for the moon to become
as big as the sun,
contemplating the complexity
of having skin like bronze and
hair like wool,
when i am yearning
for the third heaven,
sufficient grace,
summoning the perfect
inner strength to  
make the new moon holy,
he restores me with dark
chocolate kisses on my forehead

All of my angst
cannot be explained or expressed;
the energy required
to maintain condenses
to the space
of these long fingered hands --
pulses and aches
at the joints;
extending the length of my stalwart arm
until i touch his shoulder blade
is, sometimes, all that i can do
but he knows my language
and how to make us a song
that resets us to free, again