Thursday, June 19, 2008


Six: Ten

Your hands were so small.

They surprise me: cold and thin, like ice melting.

Delicately, joyfully handing me a cup of coffee. Free and easy


Driving too late at night in this too wide city.

You know, I said,

Love was supposed to save me.

You can’t hide, sweet six, you might as well give up.

It is a lie, it is a truth, and we argue it laughing while someone pisses by a tree.

You’re old enough now to say it with some authority.

And so am I:

Love was supposed to save me.

We wait for it like waiting for a train or a bus
And then it will run over us.

Now, instead, it folds itself like origami:

I can fold you up and put you inside me,

But will you fit in that wet centre, so full of nothing

So full of secrets?

You turn up your own volume, fill out every space

Even though you’re Six, so thin as sticks.

But baby,

Love was supposed to save me.

Now it’s
Just eating me alive.

I want to hide in the crook of your arm.

Shelter between your ribs, behind your too-full-lips.

And you can laugh at my mistakes
And you can make me laugh in turn
And fill me with fireworks
And sweetly swear in the dark
Within me or without me.

Because love may still save us
Like the dawn sneaking up in your rearview mirror

When we are happy, hollow, sleepy,
We shall have to see.

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