there are those, I discovered late, who were not born
loathing their bodies
whose faces grew from their souls, & were not stamped
upon a skull with little care
whose arms & legs grew evenly, & filled out
to shape the natural Adonii
who could smile a perfect smile, & had never struggled
to practice their expressions
in river water

after you, we signed an accord – no more loathing; we work
with what we have
as I would prefer a finer skeleton, with nobler
flesh, so too
does my meat desire a cleaner mind; a more honest
& open heart
& neither bone nor soul dares to dream
of what could have been
had grace been aware of our birth

now, we tear the contract, & cast our duties aside & know
something like forgiveness;
my arms knew peace after you stepped into them, as I
forgave my fingers their crooked grasp
I forgave my smile for its failures, as my lips
came to know yours
& even the shrivelled jaw & receded chin know peace
when they come to nestle between your thighs
where a stronger jaw
might not have reached

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poetry
poetry

Nothing

Wooden fingertips of electricity puncturing the heavy mist, the mist that doesn’t dance from molecule to molecule, the mist that doesn’t spread like wildfire, the mist that doesn’t expand like the crackle of napalm, but is slow, pregnant and mute, the mist that weeps...

Sparrows

she watches over
even the sparrows
you said
so why didn’t she watch over me
am I worth less than
the innocence of a bird

Release

after years I understood that I
am not the great hero of my
own poems; all failures &
cruelties are mine & belong
to me – all weaknesses of the world
are the weaknesses I own

Alive

Do your computers come to life when you sleep? Do the spectres of the dead inhabit the space between the wires; are souls just electricity – crackling along the veins and spinning around the bones? Do they flicker through the internet, in silent servers a world away;...