Evening Song

(1995)

I have only my three beings: your perfect torso — the god of children. I am without infinity, completely motionless in fact, feeling only this towering curve, this blue-yellow underbelly.

Melusina after the scream: she is smooth, and alone, which is something that I cannot (sw)allow. She wears in her hair flowers that I had watched her pick herself. I saw myself in her. Jesus slept with flowers in his hair (I am to murder him).

The lips engulf the wall in this pattern: subject, verb, etc. I know them now to be yours, however you would know them as your mother’s. We don’t feel them anymore, or perhaps we never did.

“There is, above us, the curving underbelly,” its adjoining legs obscured by shadow. I felt it in the room with us then, sleeping peacefully with the smell of flowers on its breath.

I have completely my three beginnings, and you want them. We all, in moments of forgetfulness, enjoy the scream (the very scream which he himself was not afraid of); believe me, I never had an answer.

We all pray to the god of children.

Beneath my throat, the pattern resumes: anger, love, color.

I love you. Your cold nose pressed with the burden of your head into my skin, an organ that I used only that night. Your lungs, they are the reason (reason — did I say beginnings?).

“Goodnight my angel.” The light in that place made your socks (pulled up to your knees) glow, and almost made me believe that your smiles lasted too long. I stared at you, and everyone tried to say (in unison), “I lost my spirituality at age ten.”

She sleeps with her legs out the window; the thought had never entered my mind, but I knew that I had always wanted to do that.

You have (quite unknowingly) my three bodies, the most grateful of which, now in your possession, forces my chest to implode. A blue-yellow flame, held far too close to the belly: the one who sleeps with flowers in his hair is thus awoken.

I will not take the blame, not for you; I will do whatever you ask of me.

First, before any vocal discontent, I was invited to breakfast. Apologies were all that I had. Home (nowhere I knew) was not somewhere that I could resolve these things

Kiss me (my heart). My lies dissolve in the only pattern you know: death. Once again, the programmed monotone: “Goodnight my angel.”

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