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I am not a poet, I am a teller of stories.

August 15, 2014

I want to tell you my secrets

(As sure a sign of love as any)

Call you up and tell you:

“This is what I never told you. Please, protect me from my past. Protect me from that room, that powder, that stench of death. Protect me from those eyes, that touch that makes me flinch. Protect me.”


The eye makes a mystery of the kiss.”

Running lips over ragged skin, teeth scraping down. Hands balled into fists. I have forgotten the smell of your collarbone, the feel of the meat, meet between your neck and shoulder.


Eyes that don’t see, heart that doesn’t feel. Tripping over the words, this common expression in my father’s mother’s mothertongue, thinking ‘it’s a lie, it’s a lie’, because you are in and out of my thoughts, constantly, a body bobbing on the waves of my subconscious.

The light offered to a blind feeling.”

The light offered to a blind feeling, that is, love meeting love, the years of the future spilling out before us, the birth of children, the rescue of a people, the learned inflection of bodies meeting after absence.


How could I forget? Even with generosity?

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