in the rain of dandelion seeds
drawing curtains in the wind

the lamp post was an eye
and i was the moon

because i could not catch
the tears and the orange

stood over her – like a headstone
and they were the shovelling:

how cruel are the lights?
that they pass you by

in winter’s sobs and midnight’s
zealous talons, but the winds

were your mother when she
covered your tears in her hands –

when it rained, you disappeared:
the lamp post was the eye

and i was the moon
because i did not catch

you when you flew onto
the floor without a father.

i pretend that the
lashing strings of
that broken guitar is
rain. and that the
bloodletting is
the tablature. and i

am the song. i pluck
my tongue to catch
the storm and call it
singing. do you hear
my wet body whistling?

can you latch onto
the melody the hole
in my mouth is spilling?
my sonorous navel
echoes. inspiring my skin

to dance. can you feel
the rhythm? can you
catch the syncopation?
do you feel the dress
slipping off your shoulders?

in a moment the sky will
fall. let’s pretend that our
bodies are water when we
touch. that when we move
we are the earth rearranging
the islands into a continent.

in a moment the sky will
fall. let’s pretend that we are not
afraid of the sun. if the moon
could stand the day, why
can’t we?

i will make a church
of your tears.
my pilgrimage
will be of returning
the light to the
moon.

she must not drown
again.

my prayer will be
my fingertips
in the shape of
the concavity of
your calluses.

she must not drown
again.

i will recite my words
along the lines
of your forehead.
reenact the beggar
along your eyes.
the body that paid
for existence with
unwilling breath.
return to the earth.
and with your bones
i will make a cathedral.

she will not drown
again.

we would not die:
when the plague placed
those door stoppers and
window blinds, we were
asleep—i did not wake
at 7am nor did morning
come at 10am; i commenced
what seemed to be the end
of the world at 11.58am with
a bed-yawned conductor’s wave
just after the confusion (the
school texted to cancel, then
again for a week, then
emailed: ‘indefinitely’)
and breakfast had gone
stale: i was promised milk
and honey but the world
had forgotten to move, but
then dinner emptied into
autumn, and before the leaves
had touched the ground, breakfast
was green and floral (had i
forgotten my birthday, too?)
the bountiful leftover masks piled
into a gift basket of distant
well-wishers greeting two windows
across from where they should be:
here: what was here? this greying
white static floor painted green
pinging arhythmically, laboured breath
like footsteps in the river; yes, one
foot six feet below earth at
seventeen: yes, second wing,
third building, first floor—they have
stocked up for the winter: yes, it
is warmer for the wrong reasons: yes,
i swallow death on the daily, thrice
until the nurses leave as ants to
that sweeter cake: yes, we would
not die: when the plague placed
door stoppers and window blinds,
we were asleep: i did not wake
when it ended—it was 7am,
and Jacinda would say another 231
had joined the ranks of the
lucky: but we would not die.

for such is
the ebbing of the tides
relentless in its steps
its kisses wet from parting
and so returns to the shore
panting for another

i watch as
the ocean comes running
from the sunset to the beach
and spray the purple with its mists
my feet are rooted and buried
between the lips of sand and water

i am touching love
through a plexiglass
in front of a cinema
i am watching so close, yet so far
we are wandering stars
i, jupiter, hollow and distant
and you, the earth and her moon

i see it now,
the tugging, the ebbing
of tides into the shore
is only as true as your embrace
written like the dance of the flowers
and the bees, your kisses are
sun-like, returning the day
to his night.

i

i want to tear open my neck, unzip my ribs,
unwrap the length of my lungs and name
the streets with my veins as i untangle
myself from the spine; i want to squeeze
my eyes shut until the final pus of grief
bleeds along the lines of my flailing skin—
drought of oceans, deserts in the scorch
of the quiet: oh, the silence, taped over
my mouth: i am kidnapped in my own home,
a hostage in my own body, a son without
a father
let me etch his name along the rims
of coffee-stained mugs and the yellowed
petals: oh, to be the nectar of my flowers
the flies are drunk with.

ii

i’d talk, but it’ll be like sweeping an elephant
under the year-old carpet we bought when we
got the house; when we speak, we dodge its
silhouette, tip-toeing around the linen like under
a faulty chandelier; and at any moment it swerves
its trunk—when it sneezes, it is a broken waterfall
of coffees and crackers over the wooden edge of our
new table; and then the clink and the clash of
ceramics and cups, and pretending like the elephant
disappeared—like the dead had forgotten to die—
but in the caffeine-tainted air and marble hot water,
the husks have found a song in my chest.

we
no form
or rhythm
asymmetric
pushing and pulling
see-saws never see us
level out the depression
we dug a hole we could not leave
so we returned to our old habits

we balanced above thin sheets of ice
eggshell landmines skating away
roasting marshmallows too close
skimming trucks with our heads
we are Icarus
diving deeper
helplessly
burning
us.

jupiter beside the a.m. moon
hydrangeas by the redding bricks
misty walking
grey cloud spray
star-catching near the windowpane.

a window is pressed to my eyes
as they box me by the neck
& they cage these bloody lungs
to the walls closing in
soundless & alone
I sit by the grey, the black & the white
where no tears could fall
nor voice to hear
for the walls themselves press upon my lips
feeding upon my sorrow
& screaming at the moments
where I dare shed a tear
& they gag me with their devil hands
crafted solely for their pleasure
& when I scream ‘Silence!’ with hope
for empathy & rest
they crawl their fingers down me
piercing through my skin
& piece by piece I feel myself fading
as snow in a pool of water
adrift into an eternal night
falling deeper into a darker torment
where happiness dies to sadness
where fear molests joy
here in this house of madness
where I press myself closer to the outside
in hopes, with prayer, that I may be free:

I press my eyes to the window.