You're the boy I won't with,
when my will is mistook for willing.
And your slick-jawed face and crooked eyes,
appealing like your knotted smiles,
give your lips confession grace
that means your wrong was my October right.
But that lukewarm night
when the stars were somewhere else
and the children I traced
were off pretending they knew
what another country's holidays were for:
My wrists were gypsies.
That's when you asked what I was for-
your words tied up like white lies
as you tried to seduce me with a sonnet,
forgetting the parts with words.
I didn't realize I'd like you for what I didn't say,
but if I had-
I bet your touch is as wide as your kiss.
So my indecision has sent you gone,
but if a moth could fly in your ear
where it would rattle off my fears
would your fingers stick to my spine?
Then you would be a radio.
And I could keep you quiet in pale light
when the sweat on your back
is the sweat on mine.
Instead I live like lame but happy hours
with rusted hands
where I touch no one but cities with names.
There are times when I want to forget
the genuine boy on the white rail stoop.
Like the night when my hand
was white wine in small plastic cups
and your hand was a girl fascinated by me,
but more by your room
when switches said off and it had you.
But I have known, I have known.
And it told me you could fix my feet
not to run quite as they do
and how my fingers are needles
that could stitch up your veins
which are so often white without blood
once they've gotten past noon.
But my tongue is a tourniquet.
And my right is not a side -it's your wrong.
Or can we be wrong?
When you said I was everywhere
and I said everywhere was you.
(Last Edit: 3.21.08)