Flanked by a 90-year-old writer,
rumpled with a jaunty-toothed grin
and nimble cornflower eyes,
I stood facing a gallery wall of his testimony​​—
rivulets of verse undulating,
snaking toward her,
beseeching the love of his life for now,
for tomorrows of velvet already slid between them like a charm, for Ever.
Glossy stanzas slipped the bonds of flesh and time,
ambushing the reader.
Swaying, I read. He asked about me.
Before I could stop I called myself a poet
wanting him to know,
Brother, I love like that too.

The man I love, not a straight line of experience nor flat,
tastes like brilliant circles full and salty sweet,
of heartbroken humility yet
so very quiet, holding volumes hostage behind his pursed lips.

My first father was barely a concept, the second MIA,
both gut-punchingly silent where spoken music
could have, should have swelled.
I grew up with two non-biological siblings,
numb men now, with effete jaws rusty from misuse,
spines wavy with two-faced mumbles.

In my poetess womb,
I had to make men who could speak their hearts
and push them into a world that needs their tender moxie.
I lean in close to nurture the pearls.

A riot bloomed in my belly as I read this artist’s mind.

Long-hosted lust and worship, still virile and
clanging at the eleventh hour.
My soul kin was wringing out his vital cloth on paper,
scattering fistfuls of petals, vivid proof of life;
And I wept for us all.

The damn clock claims our bones.
It’s ticking at us.
Just say it.