I want to split you open like an

orange and feel the juices leak down my

jaw as I press each segment to my

sealed lips: a citrus secret.

The crescent of thumbnail

that raced across your pebbled

flesh is ragged now, scented, wet.

The peel discarded, a shattered globe

hot in my hollowed hand as I suck on

the tiniest bitter seed: you are ravaged.

The pulling-apart, the separation:

whole-ness cannot be wished back

in the act of spitting out or the loop-stitch

of pretty words.

I have chewed each

sweetness out of you.

All that is left is rind.

“There are
hundreds of ways to
kneel and kiss the
ground…
Out beyond the ideas of
wrongdoing
and
rightdoing,
there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.”

— Rumi

“He told us, with the years, you will come

to love the world

And we sat there with our souls in our laps

and comforted them.”

I wonder if the sun debates dawn
some mornings
not wanting to rise
out of bed
from under the down-feather horizon

If the sky grows tired
of being everywhere at once
adapting to the mood swings of the weather

If the clouds drift off
trying to hold themselves together
make deals with gravity
to loiter a little longer

I wonder if rain is scared
of falling
if it has trouble letting go

If snow flakes get sick
of being perfect all the time
each one trying to be one-of-a-kind

I wonder if stars wish
upon themselves before they die
if they need to teach their young to shine

I wonder if shadows long
to once feel the sun
if they get lost in the shuffle
not knowing where they’re from

I wonder if sunrise and sunset
respect each other
even though they’ve never met

If volcanoes get stressed
If storms have regrets
If compost believes in life after death

I wonder if breath ever thinks
about suicide
I wonder if the wind just wants to sit
still sometimes
and watch the world pass by

If smoke was born knowing how to rise
If rainbows get shy back stage
not sure if their colors match right

I wonder if lightning sets an alarm clock
to know when to crack
If rivers ever stop
and think of turning back

If streams meet the wrong sea
and their whole lives run off-track
I wonder if the snow wants to be black

If the soil thinks she’s too dark
If butterflies want to cover up their marks
If rocks are self-conscious of their weight
If mountains are insecure of their strength

I wonder if waves get discouraged
crawling up the sand
only to be pulled back again
to where they began

I wonder if land feels stepped upon
If sand feels insignificant
If trees need to question their lovers
to know where they stand

If branches waver in the crossroads
unsure of which way to grow
If the leaves understand they’re replaceable
and still dance when the wind blows

I wonder where the moon goes
when she is hiding
I want to find her there
and watch the ocean
spin from a distance

Listen to her

stir in her sleep.

The discarded remains of the
love letters I fail to write you are
pinstriped orphans with cliché-lips,
purple-prose teeth and abandonment
issues, the most shameful waste
of words since the first time man (doomed)
looked at woman, rib-gaping, with a
glint in his omniscient eye.

The lamplight flickers with new glow
(the Creator sets the sun and moon on
the mantle of the universe), and each
yawn threatens to devour me
whole: the sweet refuge of your
gorgeous body in my rumpled bed
an avid temptation. I sip at cool coffee,
milk-film  crafting clouds on the surface,
and each blank leaf under my quivering
pen is another sexual creation,
physical regurgitation, a literal
labor of love (Sarai feels the
thrum of life in her century-old
womb).

My rhymes slide down my unraveling fingers,
contractions overtake my senses, and I
press my dark head against the hushed
paper and breathe out like Noah, weary,
at the first lick of rain. The imprint
of my sleepy mouth on creased white
is a more eloquent metaphor of my
simple, girlish adoration than the
the song of Solomon and
I dream of only you.

You wake me up with your
lips at the crook of my knee,
a scrap of paper caught behind
your ear, and you wear my
silence well. I wonder how many
drafts God penned of the Bible, a
goose-quill splintering in His massive
fist, before He pressed them into
pages. I wonder, as you sweep the
coffee cup off the desk and set me
down upon it (heart bared, knife-throat,
I am Isaac) where exactly He tucked
the times He got it wrong, and did
He get this kind of
applause?