- samuel lover

un-travelogue #1

it can be good
not going. not feeling
the early achy morning
body of airport coffee shops,
or crying children, or headaches
of being only a passenger.
or the relief in hitting the ground
with no complications.

12:45

i should have walked in the rain in the last of the light
before it got this late. now i’m just tired & remembering
what you said about that smell (what every body says).

it must have been weak to begin with.

of course it was. it was built on fear & pretty pictures.

it was like a pool of water in my hands pressed
so close together to stop the dripping, but still
a little would come through

& while others had a strong rope to hold
i had a sewing thread between my fingers,
but it was good thread, i thought
not held by shaking hands.

as long as my heart could fit,
things would be alright.

but the picture of
soft haired jesus quiet
& distant, the wives won
because they were Good,
a woman’s beaten body
divided & spread across the dirt
as a message made tangled knots—

how could i do anything
but cut it free

in my dream, i gave you a library.

after we set down the dry-erase markers

we mixed saltines into our ramen noodles
as we flipped off the devil underneath my house.
because, you know, he lives in the fire & can’t be
seen unless the moon is covering herself in a shawl
of black cloud (poor earth, blamed again).
my friend, the skinnything, was any-
thing but careful & tender unless she was putting
jam on her toast, or talking about the porcelain dolls
she had prayed for one christmastime. no no,
when she whispered fuck the devil
with her finger to the floor, she could have dared an idea
to come fucking get me & let’s see what you’ve got
only she didn’t. she thought she was keeping
her heart safe & there was me repeating
in that quiet little voice after her fuck
because, you know, i finally knew what it meant,
sort of & because she was afraid it was right
for me to be, too. how funny, how silly, how wrong
to have an idea invented & little girls cursing that idea
out of fear—not because they know
it should not exist.

i'm one of the poetry finalists. →

en-perle:

my stomach is all fluttery from the excitement.
what is happening. to my life?

- Andrea Gibson, “Photograph” (via bee-lane)

oh, what in the world.
what in.
the world.
happened?

i’m still confused.

trees have been split
down the middle, setting fires,
in your town
in mine
& children tell the story.
during the rain
friends i’ve not seen for many days
write vague statements
about bittersweetness
& i fold my arms, stretch
my neck up to the sky,
breathing behind the sliding
glass door. the drops
of sunlight fall in slow motion like
dust motes or traveling
miniature stars & when
the thunder comes i jump
& a tightness in
my chest warns of
the strikes, the hand we
can never get a good look at.
even though there is really nothing
to be afraid of,
the low rumble always
seems to make
me a child again.