Never Over

Transferring
from your shelves to my shelves
from your drawers to my drawers
from your walls to my walls
from your kitchen to my kitchen
from your bedside to my bedside
from your closet to my closet:
books, candles, collages, cups, nipple clamps, hoodies,
traces, negotiations, scented scenes, altars.

Left wondering from your
space to mine
what material could possibly transfer itself
in all the ways we have,
what objects could possibly shift
inside and out,
flip sideways and surrender
as our bodies have
day in and day out
over years, months, days and seconds.

As I pack up, load in, and drive away
only to unpack somewhere else
you haunt me--all/ready--and I know there's
no movement
yours or mine
near or far
now or later
capable of boxing and sending this love away.

Regarding Symbolic Enactment

If you want to know the difference
between the religious heart
and the 'right' mind
think candle in the window
versus
flag in the front yard.

The Struggle for Individuation amidst Suffocating Cultural Homogeneity

All night long:
dreams of unfolded clothes
multiplying, minute to minute,
in the middle of my bed.
In order to protect my rest place,
I had to separate the clothing out,
evaluating the utility and worth of each piece,
article by article,
questioning what would be saved
and what would be carried away.
Eventually I realized
"so much material, so little value"
and I began throwing them overboard
with rapid intensity and rage
screaming "where did you all come from?!"

Wind

Theologians adopt images of G-d like construction workers utilize tools. We build houses, for ourselves, for one another. We do this because we are creative and pragmatic, expressive and yearning AND we do this because wordlessness (which is the only honest utterance of G-d) is not an option when you need a front door to enter. Right now the only image of G-d working for me is wind. Because all I have is movement and being blown about. That's divine, right?

The Politics of Recognition

No—not in the sense of identity and access,
but the instantaneous home making
that occurs on the street
(or any other random assembly place)
when wide open, yet slightly guarded gestures
without any pre-established vocabulary
spur the one glance…two glance…now not looking away way of gazing.
In it: recognition and
space to explore that which is co/incidentally familiar
and wholly other,
where in hearing t/his story,
the mortar (a.k.a “my” body) of past time pain seems translatable
and the potential of passion futuristically redeemed.

Deeply personal, and not, this politic.
A relationship.
A refuge--
one that welcomes in
and pushes back out
any wilderness fearing/seeking wanderer.

eternal funeral

yesterday
"love has no restrictions"
today
"make it my own and it cannot harm me"

i walk, exhausted, through the cemetery
in my neighborhood, canonizing his utterance,
heeding his hope, re-calling his love while
searching the honor rituals of the living,
how they keep loving their dead,
knowing my ritual concretizes
a sentiment in line with his suggestions.

these corporeal remains,
deeply buried, mostly unknown and untended,
resourcefully transformed over time
signify my greatest fear: forgetfulness.
these seasonal flowers, small waving flags,
sacred marble inscriptions
and angel figurines over-looking it all
signify my greatest hope: that in the act of remembering
something goes from grey to green,
that in making the death my own,
our loss will no longer
harm me.