collections from new york after a long night
boyish. boy-ish. thing come alive. the warmth
flaring in the pit of your stomach, it could be
desire, if you wanted. you are a woman, after all,
after all, you are a dove, you are a god, the music,
the tongue in cheek and on cheek, the love
hidden in the wall on a wednesday. so afraid
of becoming something that it already is. afraid
of tenderness: afraid of its flesh peeled back
like an orange, afraid of the bruises underneath
the silk dress. after all, you are the city at night
full of lovers pouring forth from their doorways,
you are the windows flung open as if the moon
was always the only answer. boy not-bird, regrettably.
girl not record-player not spinning too fast to breathe.
and fear, fear, fear, trembling in corners like a jazz band.
tapping their fingers. love incarnate working an office job.
all of us doing something to get by. we’re afraid of something
and we’ve shoved it away: our kindess and hope taking up space
in the air vents. the storm brewing in your hands, it could be
tenderness, low and sweet. this is a promise i am making to you.
this is advice about that monsoon crawling up your wrists.
it could be tenderness, a song, gentle rainfall, yes woman.