At first we are all crimes; a million cells,
a million disasters, damning our
We damn the tongues that carve us
like thumb rings - the beginning
and the end (conclude) on the same
The same round shapes; like an eye,
your thigh - and my thigh.
In the end, we are one body, huddled
in the corner waiting for the sky to fall
but until then your arm shelters my
breast and my womb -
I belong to no one, except for you.
And your kisses on my neck take the shape of prayer
beads; each kiss another prayer and I keep
them all in mind (like Nicole taught me) while
I use my tongue to strum along on my guitar
to the Diva's techno impressions;
she seals them onto the wall with kisses
and cherry flavored Gods
(the shapes her lips take)
disarm us -
she harms the silence of us.
If you're a disease, then I'm dying of you.
if blood is a landmark; then I've already walked the earth.
We joke about the tenacious Catholic girl,
and the impractical Jewish boy -
all lost incarnations of yourselves
skins we've shed that make about
as much sense as the gun in our
My grandfather fought the war
that liberated your grandfather;
I'm sure that if they were both
still alive they would break
bread over our matching thumb rings.
As you seep into my soul;
at first you grab my mind and then you grab my body.
And as we become the conclusion, the crime
played out (like the circle) I say:
My father really died that morning when
I was twelve and I found him shaking over
the kitchen sink, naked, with the 911 operator
on the other side of my ear.
'Is he breathing?' - 'He's moving!'
There was nothing there.
And you pull my ring off - turquoise, and
it wrinkles my eyes; I fold in on myself
like a love letter,
sealed in the shape of a heart by the Diva's
pre-maddona kisses. I taught her to pray to our lady,
like I'll teach our agnostic daughters whom, like
their mother, will rebel.
I kissed your lips pale purple in the car, but the
shadows in the backseat were pulling at the ends
of my hair slowly; they cut methodically. They
know that my hair is the only way I recognize
myself in the mirror anymore.
And she sings; the melody, of calamity - it's
only a matter of time, you joke (between gunshots)
before the crime comes to a halt.
Before it ends. Before you start listening.
I've made a space for you,
I have a taste for you.
We damn the tongues that carve us
like lanterns; under the light where the air
is so thin it burns my lungs -
under the glare where my jittery bones aren't
just a casualty of the weather, but something
more serious (the pain in my heart) is just a
flutter, nothing more
then the gunshot. The ring, everything
has its unwanted place, in this unwanted
race of excommunicated theologians.
The study goes as follows: The heistis a
hell of a lot closer to Jesus Christ then
your bedtimes stories would have you believe.
We both talk to God in the spotlight of
each other - we understand the symbols
better when our hands form circles.
Nicole taught me to reawaken my sisters
from the cracks they've slit themselves through -
little lines in the floorboards. Little poems
who reference my name and the games
we played together as children.
They are not dead; just sleeping in between
the seconds that befell the gunshot.
The Diva is the only beautiful thing in the room,
I don't want to look at her, or listen,
but you seem ... immersed. Cursed. The crime
is almost complete.
We all start out as first kisses, or passion, or rape,
or just another illusion, just another man, and
just another woman - we call
and we call
We are crimes like the curls of their toes;
all goodly girls must be prepared to die.
All goodly girls must be angels,
and all honorable men must be animals.
(I'm proud of my ape ancestors!)
(After it's all over)
they lay our thumb rings over our eyes
so they can be sure
that we're truly blind to everything around