Dear P., IV
Five seconds to open a parachute, one
that smells like terror. I am a river and
you a body. When your body fell into
the river, you informed it, ignored it.
I handled you as a half-masted plank or
wooden vessel. When I received you, it was
night. The constellations broke their
vertebrae arching to see you. I stumbled
over myself to key you into my folds, river
of error, river of dirty whiteness. Now I know.
If I press hard enough on my eyeballs, I see
geometric shapes and stars. My love for you
is something like this. It is there like
the stars but nothing I can grab or free.
Someone says it is difficult to write poems
that are both domestic and ambitious. If
your small round head is my earth, if I have
concerns only for the internal affairs of your
body, then how am I too not mining waves
of concentric circles outward? Our home has
more than four sides. There are wars in rooms,
furniture in formation. If I am your domestic
servant, why is it assumed we are domestic?
That we are small and petty, that we are
controllable, unwild. You betray me over and
over. I play you and prey on you. This is not
domestic. There is no plaid sofa here, no
salad plate, no bingo hall, just falling bodies.
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