Once, words would cut like broken beer bottles.
Poems became razors. Tear-stained paper:
a metaphor. The blood stained the bathtub pink.
To remember was the way
my lungs would wither.
The poet: gasping for hope,
the mirror cracking, and cracking.
Seven years bad luck.
There was a time when, with anthologies in hand,
I would recite obituaries like sonnets.
Their names, sung in four / four,
became heroes to the part of me
that wished to be a ghost.
With anthologies in hand,
I wanted to be small.
But did you know?
like sunflowers in the dawn.
That is what is hidden behind your white candy teeth,
sugar sweet with promises: the sun, rising from your throat,
your voice warming my cheeks (still wet).
Instead of black death & vodka,
I drink your smiles. ‘I love you’
becomes my morphine. And the nights
are not so cold: it is summer here,
a summer to be touched, held
and made love to.
Anthologies become tomorrow.
The bathtub is bleached anew.
poems are the way
our lips can touch
when the sun sets,
and we sleep.