Nothing is what it seems
six feet under.
I keep catching flies
with an open mouth
and wonder why
voices speak of me from a distance.
Footsteps muffle
and break the daffodils
perched precariously over my head
and the sky feels so blue
it hurts my eyes.
I can hear the secrets
that make the grass go green
with spite
and birds' twitter sounds like
little old ladies
playing gin rummy
and cursing under their breath
over the gossip they're missing.
But the worst part is
I smell the reek of winter
seeping through dirt
in dry roots
pushing up dead daisies
some lazy relative left
as an after-thought
and know a sickening truth
It paints bleak pictures
with brushes dipped in you -
the terse blues
of lonely winters
spent with dying family
in the shuffling white
of rooms
where feet clattered
and death beds reeked
of sour pity,
the aching red
of desolation
looming under blankets
and propping up pillows,
stricken golds
of battered sunlight
spilled across bedpans
and oxygen tanks
and the bleached
and silver grey
of the nurse's
incontinent lies.
Your scars
are bright and shiny
like baby's teeth
newly cut and grown,
or Christmas toys
your mother hid
up in the attic
praying you would never touch.
I like their livid edges,
how they pucker
under my hands
like new zippers
begging to be left open,
and catch the light
that spills from my perfect world.
And you like
the jagged sounds
my sighs make,
the rush of warm air
that keeps you safe
and how your fragile heart beats
when you unbuckle your skin
and the world heals.
I remember
we sat on the beach at sunset
and counted the kites,
spent sails torn from galleons
breaking clouds into spindrift,
and watched the seagulls
carving August
out of blue and white.
You wore the sky
around your neck,
where the day's warmth
knotted in a chain,
and held shells to my ear
like a mermaid stolen from the sea
breaking the surface of shimmer
and tangled fish
over salty oyster beds.
I remember
the color of your hair
lashing against your shirt
and your pirate smile
like a crooked bird
warming the dusk
and the long cool of your legs
wrapping my nights
and stealing the summer...
Like will-o-wisps they travel
On the wind.
Less substantial than ash;
Only slightly more so than imagination.
Attempting their former business
With useless hands.
Desperately crying out their messages
With silent voices.
Helplessly surrendering
To their imposed path.
I do not fly under your flag
or sup from your well of souls.
You will not find my name
written in your lists of legion
or my likeness slipped under your footstool
while your minstrels cower
and beggar men go blind.
I will not sing your praises
or sit at your table
below the salt
waiting like your dogs
for bonescraps to drop
or pray for rings to kiss
in the stark chill of something unborn.
I am no tattered remnant
of your majesty
no soldier of fortune
blinded by your promises
to make me better than I am
or raise my gifts
to unimagined heights.
I am but one man in a scant crowd,
born beneath your horizon
in places you ref
Your world,
the stuff of dreams,
that soft collision
of gently worn ghosts
and the fraying edges
of summer nights,
pools under the sky
like the backwater of heaven.
Rifts of melodies,
caught round your fingers,
court and spark
the softest demons -
full of poetry
and sweet oaths;
and dark stars,
bright as crickets,
glister with agate
against the window.
You wear me
like linen and cloves,
fine smoke from storms
and the echo of midnight,
caught under your spell.