Thursday, June 7, 2007

published in 'but,' 05. supposed to be like, a performance piece in writing. and really, did not warrant the deathglare my beloved writing mentor gave me. i was 17! for crying out loud. am thinking of reworking it so that it would be more... performance friendly



I’d trace the Cyrillic words for truth on your eyelids
Shade the way the shadows hold you
Dip my hands in ink, and there would be
Two curved trails of fingerprints, tracing where your wings would have been
My name in Arabic on the back of your neck, where you can’t see it
Just above yours, in any language you love.

Down, down, down your spine
The figure-shapes of all the languages I can think of
Cambodian, Japanese, Bengali
For love and everything else too perfect that I would rather you not know I want
In old, old languages, where the ache of history has lingered on.

I would trace your lifeline and mark the constellations around it
Your lifeline: the Big Dipper, your love line: Orion’s belt
These marks Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Draco
I’d cover your scars with promises; mark your bruises with lies.

In the thinnest pen I would write everything I could never say to you
In my handwriting that you can’t be bothered to read
Inking the gaps between your hands and mine.

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