American Dream
I
slow, deep autumn. golden hour runs,
breath catching breath, through the museum
and the american dream
has never looked so beautiful. your eyes
look to the sun for her forgiveness
before you plunge, tight and desperate,
lipstick on my cheek. come, romeo,
let our lips do what our hands are doing.
II
the bird spreads his wings,
climbs to heaven in one
electrified
breath
and icarus never
learns his lesson.
III
early winter. this is wrong,
this is untouchable, they said.
but i peel an orange for you, feed
the campfire. it is enough.
even the moon knows
to lower her gaze.
she puts the oceans to bed.
IV
there are thirteen ways of looking
at a blackbird. which is to say,
there are one hundred and sixty-nine ways
of saying i love you.
V
tragic spring, like a coming-of-age movie,
like a story that wasn’t made for us
but we read the script anyway, if only
to taste the paper on our tongue.
confessions:
i want you
i need you
i have sinned
i have seen
this scene before
i am my father’s son
i am my father’s son
VI
how does the bird measure distance?
by the flap of a wing,
perhaps? or by the song he sings
so he doesn’t look down?
VII
summer, blinding summer,
galactic and silent overbearing summer—
they said to never look directly at the sun
so i don’t. my hands now on your hips in the museum
and i think, even if it all ends, even if
we’re hanged, at least we’ll be art. so what if we’re shone
through, and skin breaks easier than clay?
it’s summer,
beautiful breathtaking summer,
and my american dream is holding me warm
and close and free.
grapes
I hear them in the kitchen, the boys
washing up and the girls playing with
a lighter. Cold, deep autumn,
and the April wind settles over the balcony
like a wax seal on a love letter. In twenty
or so minutes Charlotte will squeal
at her blue-backed cards on the couch
and everyone will forget about this, even
you. But for now you lean over
and the hem of your hoodie brushes
against my neck. For a moment I forget
there is wood beneath my feet, and that the giving
of breath demands its taking. So I allow myself
to fall, the experimental evanescent siren that sings
just for us. You kiss me and it tastes like grape
soda; or champagne; or the sky with bubbles
in a supernatural purple.
