by Zooee Ghostly
Outstretched limb
and
June-faced
you,
That humid bedroom
and
poems
of English painters,
poems
of Chilean romantics
in a language I can’t understand
The animals kept survey;
yellowpupiled barflies
dreaming of your legs
and mouth
wondering aloud
where my tongue
had found itself yet.
Another record
this one Gainsbourg.
you longed for Bridgette,
I called you Bonnie
and we lay broken
there
on the ashburnt carpet.
I was not jealous of
that southern one
that boy my brother;
watching his hands on you
hearing you gasp
and watching you wither,
though I did find myself disgusted
imagining
the texture of his tongue
and the shapes of his genitals
and wondering
if you may prefer them.
How foolish a creature am I?
How lovely a thing
we are in the morning,
bloodied glassware
and windowed cigarette,
vines born as legs
and another torn bit
of golden foil
discarded.
I’ve repeated my praises
too often,
requested yours
too willingly
but
please know I meant it
lovingly,
and understood you
as a rarity,
a being that evokes
poetry,
a wolf in the night
I went wandering.
I am
on this morning
decaying;
an autumnfaced thing
of yellowteeth grimace,
and you my hands:
the growl
that throats Van Gogh
from an Underwood
unquestioningly.
Please pause
if only for a shaking sigh
before you collect your things;
When that time comes
I will accept it
but for now I am yours.
(You’ve seen so little
of me:
a form of loneliness
and nostalgia,
a boy
of few friendships,
but I hope
you may look past it,
(explore the unflesh
form of this):
and know
that I remain here
when it would be easier
to leave.