finally the poem

finally, five days later

the poem comes

just before you sink

into the arms of another,

and the poem cuts

like this night’s half moon:

a summer light

a decade of summers

how many memories have we

never known together? 

and all these 

ones we make now, apart.

the poem comes, and it’s the shape

of your brown shoulder hugging

my bed’s pillow, your sweet lips

kissing the back of my neck

away from me now,

kissing all the same spots

on another suit of skin.

all of us lovers have souls.

all souls are lovable.

there is no comparison, nothing

is sacred. only freedom. 

only.

only the kind of freedom

that dies on a cross for love,

right?

only freedom comes

five days later with the poem,

in your hands,

in your mouth,

gone.

only, i am free.

hanging by the wrists

you pinned with kisses

to a tree of love,

I sing a song to the heavens:

let me not be afraid

let not my enemy triumph over me.

all of us lovers have souls.

all souls are lovable.

everything is sacred.

everything is everything.

nothing is everything. 

nothing is nothing.

nothing is sacred.

hanging by the sharp edge

of a half moon,

the poem comes.

it comes from me.

it belongs to me.

I am free.

finally.

it costs nothing

to let love roar

through me like a train on fire,

right?

nothing except a thousand little deaths

like the moon’s death

each time the sun hides

on its necessary cycle

everything cycles.

everything is death.

nothing is death.

hanging in moon shadow

cut in half by summer light

the poem comes,

a memory of truth:

I am free.

let me not be afraid