HOW TO TIME TRAVEL
every road i've touched is a ley line back to my body--
traces of energy beat under my skin to the rhythm of footsteps.
i think i took to walking home last summer because i was scared
of speed and falling asleep too easily, but now i am afraid of fast cars
and the tendency of your eyes to watch me in the darkness
of the passenger seat. i walked a forked road and took a wormhole
back through the old woods where we fell into something, or
fell out of something, and felt afraid either way--
and i was touched by grief i hadn't felt yet and the tendency
to experience nostalgia after dark. it's been a while and it still rattles
in my head, how months are the same as minutes and how
i fall asleep and we belong to the same time, a year where we are in love
and not afraid of each other, or the way our knees touched
in the backseat of her car. in later decades i feel world-worn and adoring
when i think of your hands, earth-touching, skin that has felt
the split between energy and animal. on a different timeline
my body moves quickly and leaves apprehension behind. on every timeline
something happens to us and i fall asleep and you do not say goodbye.
sometimes i take myself back a few hours just to feel a little sharper
than i do when i miss the mist of your mouth, the sprigs of your hair,
the fizzling way your body moves when i shift time and try to remember.
i move through space and startle myself with it. i am still afraid
and trying desperately not to be, still too fast for my own skin. each year
feels faded beneath my eyes--now time-starched, and forlorn.
MERCIFUL LIGHT ON
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOON
i wish i had seen you in your birth state
before you came to me as a girl of magic,
a mystic thing, washed clean by blinding sun
and cold winds. i find myself doubtful and afraid
when i see your silhouette, ashamed
of the way the light won’t touch you.
i took down all the paintings in my house
and cut circles in the roof for the moon to spill through,
places where you could pluck your fingers
through my bowling ball body and toss me around–
if i knock things down in my wake, it will have been
with intention and shame. everything has a shadow
and each one is darker than the last,
yours a cosmic sort of black that sucks out my breath.
if i say it again, it will catch in my throat;
i am afraid of the dark. i wish you would not go.
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