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

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