Fifty-nine. The blur between fingers.

He buries his face into my hair and inhales.
If I live anywhere in his body,
I live in his lungs. There are better organs
I'm sure, but it's warm here too,
and most of the sound stays away.

Sometimes in the middle of the night,
I wake up to feel my spine against the wall.
I don't mean to make this all about bodies
but we are the sort of people whose faith is
Tangibility, and there is little room
for dreamy motions or romantic confessions.
Some mornings, I don't even stay for coffee.

How do I explain then, the nova in my stomach,
and the bird in my throat who, as time passes,
beats his wings more furiously. I have to keep
my mouth closed to prevent feathers
from bursting out. And oh, what trouble it would be
if a song escaped. What beautiful trouble
it would do to our small little worlds.

Fifty-eight. Remember,

it was before February
and you would hear other people say things,
lovely things or aching things,
and they'd all make the right sort of sense
as they tied themselves around your throat.
Truths such as, "The heart wants
what the heart wants," and
"You are the reason that I'm losing sleep."
Winter can be quite deadening
and there were reasons to be careful,
reasons not to be careful, and figuring out
where to put the line down was tricky business.
Remember, when the body was there
but you weren't allowed to touch it.
It shook you awake, wanting something again,
as selfish as it was. "I would like
to kiss you." Then you got what you wanted
and weren't sure if you deserved it.
One day you ask him to leave with you,
and he says no. You weren't sure
if you deserved that either.
So instead of leaving town, you put the sides
of your shoes together, but something
still didn't make sense. You tried other movements.
Switched sides of the bed. Hung new curtains.
By July, you were arranging the silverware
in the drawer every other day.
"I'm afraid it's time for goodbye again."

Fifty-seven.

There are emptied out frames
all over the floor, a blue cup of water,
and no scientist has been able to prove
that people get what they need.
Someone, somewhere, maybe in Germany or Sydney
or Mauritania or North Dakota
claims that they want to understand.
Shift the perspective:

Letters from other states say
You deserve to be happy
and
I am so proud.

Five hundred kilometers away
a young man discovers that he is still a human being
when he begins crying uncontrollably
into a bowl of oatmeal. Meanwhile,
you lament about fairness while brushing your teeth
over a pristine porcelain sink, because, after all,
nobody ever offers to come over when you are decidedly
falling apart into your morning cereal.

The themes progress. Evolve like animals.

We find the rooms inside ourselves
and then decide what to do with them.
Here: The doors will not be equipped with locks
and the windows will always remain open at least
one inch. Nobody will be a prisoner but sometimes,
sometimes a person will ask why you didn't try
to keep them. Explain that you always kept the tea warm
and eventually added furniture specifically for them,
hung up their favorite painting next to your
favorite painting, but never gathered up the guts
to ask the Important Questions. Sorry.
Remember that this will not be good enough
and they will likely not forgive you.
Sweep the floor immediately, but neglect
to scrub the windowsills.

Sometimes,
we don't tell the truth.

Fifty-six. On viewing things from the outside, again.

The light is different now
than it was in February.
You say this is obvious
but I shifted seamlessly
through the seasons
with mint in my mouth.

You don't let anything happen.

Make the body become
a map. Make the body
become an alter.

So I'm not your muse.
I don't dip your wings in gold
or coat your throat with honey.
I don't make you want to write
symphonies, or cause birds
to fly out of your ears.
I see the way you look at girls
who have figured out what to do
with their voices in the middle
of crowded rooms. And that's
not me. We spend so much time saying,
This is not about you.

Meanwhile, an old lover
sends me postcards
from a tropical island,
and all of the wrong people
are handing me confessions and trying
to write me into their stories.
When do I get to be
part of yours?

Fifty-five.

I am less interested
in the shore.