Make my body a shrine
I strive to stop yearning so quiet / so you know that yes, I, too— / Yes, I, too—
I need help because for the first time words are failing me. My pen has run dry and the typewriter keys are just a jumbled pile on the floor. So I must make due. I kiss Neruda into your collarbone and think of cherry trees. I lick Carver into your mouth and promise, beloved, no early morning talks; no one can reach us now. I bite Rumi against your shoulder and let you devour me in this violent world— You make my body a shrine and I strive to stop yearning so quiet so you know that yes, I, too— Yes, I, too— I don’t say, Here are my carotid and my aortic and my femoral, tender from your fingers because yes, I am here to breathe for you (yes); because yes, my flesh is here to be the canvas for your bruising teeth and tongue (yes); because yes, because I don’t care what you do (yes) if afterwards you press your lips, gentle, to my skin. You stole my words, with your breath, with your mouth— Now I’m forced to borrow, to steal, but if you keep looking at me like that while I do then (yes) I'll keep pretending to be a poet.
This is a stunningly beautiful poem, Maia. Thank you!
"...the typewriter keys are just a jumbled pile on the floor.
So I must make due.
I kiss Neruda into your collarbone
and think of cherry trees."
Absolute beauty.