After a day spent lugging
my gunship around, a drape of foam
sighs over me––your arm, deep blue,
a velvet of cool crashing calm upon my hull.
An ocean you are that cradles
me, cannon-tattered, munitions-depleted,
safely towards the horizon’s lighthouse with waves
no harsher than the tinkle of your breath along my ear
as it glitters its way
in escapades down my legs to dispell itself
like a dozen rockets from my toes––You pull me closer
into a dream, the night all black except for
the whispers of stars you use
to navigate gently to the new day.
And so we go
The lamentations of the hills
who had never encountered an interstate
until the day they were severed
into lifeless twins so that
this gray ribbon could be sewn into them
are feelings that I, rushing 75 miles per hour
as passenger in your crisis car,
can fully comprehend in
the 3 seconds it takes to fly by
because your knuckles on the steering wheel are
the same color as the scars
on my chest, and
my bookshelf ribs bear all the rolling amber of
the dead chopped corn stalks on either side
of this beaten path.
Without a flashlight, I toed my way
barefoot across the salamander skin of the leaves
in the dead of night in the woods.
Fingering the toad scratches of the bark as the canopy
suffocated my eyes
and the mossy fur of the air
tickled my Id, I thought on the beasts of the full moon––
Dracula, the mummy, and the bad man
with the bolts in his neck (I was not ready
to wear the bride’s lightning scalp)––
only to find that the tattered-flannel werewolf
was only you,
you, as I’d always known you,
a mutt of fluff, tail wagging, unghostly,
just the other side of the clearing.
I unfolded myself and you lept into my arms
as if you didn’t even know the monster you were.