At the beginning, ours was the difficulty of youth,
of property, having none but our bodies,
always in wild search of a place to lay
longwise. Out of necessity
we became collapsible, able to fold
into one another on any surface
large enough for one.
If we met now, instead of at eighteen,
when our personalities were like pages
from coloring books colored emphatically
inside of the lines because we were so proud
we had learned how not to scribble,
you would come back to my place,
or I would go to yours, both of us apologizing
for the mess, or maybe just me,
and you would take my shirt off,
no, probably I would, and you'd see
nothing special. Just boobs.
When you are medium-old,
clothing is the wrapper,
even the body is the wrapper,
it's that inside that lasts about as long as candy lasts,
that we are trying to get at. Even when you try
to slow down and make your pores wide
like arms expressing an amount of love,
you can't stretch into a sponge that can soak
up or in much of anything,
having so many previous others already
filling up those pockets.
All of us--thirty-something-saturated
are at a point where we simply spread around mess.
There isn't a way to wring out all the fucking
we've done. Certainly, one doesn’t get wrung
free from her cynicism by telling the truth
of how it ended up ending...Deadbeat dad.
But maybe telling the beginning will twist and rinse,
We didn't have an apartment
and had learned to find cover and heat
in a sleeping bag with gasoline clouded in it's fabric:
a repetitive, quilted sky of pheasants scattering
(after a shot gun cry?), making some of the birds
probably hit and the sleeping bag
a depiction of fowl paused between falling and flying.
Fitting, because we laid as if we'd been shot
and stacked on top of one another
in a hunter's bag. My heart beating
his into the ground, kissing like flashlights
searching for something in the dark,
completely blind to what the fabric
of sleeping bags try to do; tell us
what life wants from us.
In this case, hunt. I didn't know
we were both game,
the ones holding the guns,
and the molecules between them.
I was a child and he was a child learning love,
which is learning to walk on a moon,
where things like gravity are irrelevant,
and breasts are new, bright stars
exactly like the ones we had been
singing about since we learned
they grant wishes.