1247 Love poems

When I know you are coming home I put on this necklace: glass beads on a silken thread, a blue that used to match my eyes. I like to think I am remembering you. I like to think you don’t forget. The necklace lies heavy on my skin, it clatters when I reach down to lift my screaming child. I swing her, roll her in my arms until she forgets. The beads glitter in the flicker of a TV set as I sit her on my lap and wish away the afternoon. I wait until I hear a gate latch lift the turn of key in lock. I sit amongst toys and unwashed clothes, I sit and she fingers the beads until you speak in a voice that no longer seems familiar, only strange. I turn as our child tugs at the string. I hear a snap and a sound like falling rain.

By the time you swear you’re his, Shivering and sighing, And he vows his passion is Infinite, undying— Lady, make a note of this: One of you is lying. —Dorothy Parker Or else our drunken tumble was too true for daylight’s pleasure, too much in vino veritas troubled the gods of measure who sent bright draughts of sunshine down and sobered up my treasure. All night rapacity had come as naturally as breathing; we nibbled on each other’s necks like greedy babies teething. How soon an empty bottle makes one feel a blissful free thing. “Aspirin, aspirin,” he implored; I fed him several pills, and when he wondered where he was it gave me frightful chills, but still I told him of the party’s unexpected thrills. Words woke us up, reflection turned affection to regret: “After she left me I tried not to do this, but I get so lonely”...so I showed him out, warbling “I’m glad we met.” But now I crave the swift return of scotch-transfigured nights, like Chaplin, horrified by his rich friend in City Lights who only recognizes him from liquor-gladdened heights, sticking a tall glass in the man’s upstanding hand (the clink or worse awaits poor tramps like us if scamps like you won’t think) and meekly scolding, in a voice weak with nostalgia, “Drink.”

“Who is Beatrice,” wondered Walter B., “to give Beatrice up her hope?” Beatrice sulked under her cauliflower-colored hat. “It is like,” said Beatrice, “I can barely crack another joke.” “This is correct,” said Walter B. “It is most certainly like that. Nevertheless, whoever you are it is not up to you to give up your hope. And additionally you are spoiling the day.” “What is ‘giving up your hope’?” asked Beatrice. “It is when,” explained Walter B., “you have to ask.” * It all began with the appearance of The Unlikelies. It was difficult to anticipate in these small men sitting cross-legged on the living room floor the havoc they would bring. They held hands. They sang a song about trees, and as they sang their tree-shaped ears swelled with what Beatrice would later describe as pride. They asked for gently steamed vegetables. They seemed genuinely concerned. “Pick a heart,” they cheered, “any heart.” Beatrice picked one. “Expect for that one.” Beatrice picked another. “And that one, too.” “That was less joyous,” said Beatrice, “than I’d expected.” “The hearts you picked,” explained The Unlikelies, “had been picked yesterday.” “It is unlikely,” said The Unlikelies, “that will happen again.” Walter B. hid in the kitchen. Whose side The Unlikelies were on, Beatrice began to wonder. “Pick a heart,” they urged. Beatrice picked another. “Except for that one.” Beatrice picked another. “And that one, too.” With each heart Beatrice picked The Unlikelies grew larger. They seemed genuinely concerned. “All is dare,” they reminded Beatrice with their mouths full of broccoli, and carrots, and peas, “in blur and core.” By dawn, Walter B. could still hear Beatrice picking hearts. Their empty husks filled the floor. The Unlikelies huddled closer together. “Except for that one,” they mumbled sleepily, moving closer to the door. The Unlikelies were, by now, as big as the furniture. “And that one, too.” Walter B. hid in the kitchen. He imagined he would make out of all the husks a hearty soup. He rummaged for a pot. He would feed Beatrice the soup, drop by drop, until she forgot this highly unlikely event impossible to forsee by any hopeful thing. “All is spare in buds and more,” promised The Unlikelies, as they squeezed their enormous bodies out the door. * Days later, when Beatrice asked Walter B. if The Unlikelies were still standing outside in the sunlight, congratulating each other, Walter B. said “no.” But Beatrice knew they were there. And she knew they would return for her. They seemed genuinely concerned.

Three people drinking out of the bottle in the living room. A cold rain. Quiet as a mirror. One of the men stuffs his handkerchief in his coat, climbs the stairs with the girl. The other man is left sitting at the desk with the wine and the headache, turning an old Ellington side over in his mind. And over. He held her like a saxophone when she was his girl. Her tongue trembling at the reed. The man lying next to her now thinks of another woman. Her white breath idling before he drove off. He said something about a spell, watching the snow fall on her shoulders. The musician crawls back into his horn, ancient terrapin at the approach of the wheel.

In the nighttime house I don’t know where you are My allegiances could change How can I stop my allegiances from changing? Morning is a gown put on at midnight, but no one’s coming I don’t know what your secrets are You say you have no secrets but I can feel them, they’re bumps under the blanket You do not let me in This mood kept me up all night, like stars in my face, like the burning fuel of dead stars burning right through my face So now I have my own secrets This voyage at nighttime, these burning holes I can’t take you with me — I don’t know who you are You say it’s me, but I’m dreaming, I can’t recognize anything except someone else’s song, which sounds like a kind of siren, it’s calling me, it puts a light on Give me three reasons Oh, you think I test you? You think I work you too hard? You think it’s too much to make you master the task on your blue-black knees at 3 am ?

An hendy hap ichabbe yhent; Ichot, from hevene it is me sent; From alle wymmen mi loue is lent, And lyght on Alysoun. Bytuene Mersh and Averil, When spray biginneth to springe, The lutel foul hath hire wyl On hyre lud to synge. Ich libbe in love longinge For semlokest of alle thinge. He may me blisse bringe; Icham in hire baundoun. On heu hire her is fayr ynoh, Hire browe broune, hire eye blake; With lossum chere he on me loh; With middel smal, and wel ymake. Bote he me wolle to hire take, Forte buen hire owen make, Longe to lyven ichulle forsake, And feye fallen adoun. Nihtes when y wende and wake, Forthi myn wonges waxeth won; Levedi, al for thine sake Longinge is ylent me on. In world nis non so wyter mon, That al hire bounté telle con. Hire swyre is whittore then the swon, And feyrest may in toune. Icham for wowyng al forwake, Wery so water in wore. Lest eny reve me my make, Ychabbe y-yerned yore. Betere is tholien whyle sore Then mournen evermore. Geynest under gore, Herkne to my roun.

for Geraldine Monk 'I love you,' he wouldn't say: it was against his philosophy; I-love-you didn't mean what it meant, plus the verray construction of the phrase caused bad-old-concrete-lawman-vandal-verbal-mildew-upon-the-grape- harvest-and-war-for-rare-minerals-required-to-manufacture-commu- nications-devices damage; saying I-love-you damaged love, subject and object; plus he could prove this in two dense and delphic languages suitable for philosophy, opera, cursing, and racking the nerves of arti- ficial intelligence machines that perhaps could love but would be hard-wired giammai to dare say so. So what moved him to not-say I-love-you? What wake-up-and-spoil-the-coffee ashtray-licking djinn? I have to start to agree. The verbness of it impropriety (eyes glob up the syringe when you're giving blood: semisolid spiralling); perhaps too active... I-love-you, I sand you, I drill you, I honey and set you for wasps, crimson you like a stolen toga, add value applying dye, fight owner- ship, I cite you to justify skilled outrage, put your name as guarantor on an astronomical mortgage, I admit desertification comes as a relief, from I to O, O my oasis, O my mirage. Maybe the verb is a tending-to- wards? A tightrope? A tropism? A station? But that's meeting him on his own ground; plus I can't disprove entire languages; plus those three little words aren't meant as saying. An icy drink in stormlight. A looked-at leaf left to transpire its own way until... And sans I-love-you the centuried moon rose above dinnermint stone; many men contin- ued  talking; a woman lifted her sarsenet skirt, peed on green lilies and, utterly gracious, walked through the archway to join the mixed group delighting in — word! believe it! — fresh air.

Wasn't that your cheek against mine last night Gin Streetlight When somebody loves you Impossible When you reach the broken paddock fence the sign will say Impossible The color God painted my eyes A cross between storm and ewerstream Impossible All your wrong lovers without certificates Stamped across their foreheads Impossible Dear Torch Received your kind invitation Regret conflagration impossible You must mean a phantom Your hand at her waist Your ache at her absence Not mine Impossible A holy place in the emperor's city A peach in a stone Impossible You the mask of a ram I the mask of a bull Horn chips Mischling Torn doors Impossible Dance without footprints Dance with no name in a room with no lovers not touching Impossible Your eyes One protecting your sleeping son's dreaming One torchlit and trying to close Impossible Dear Lion Here's a gazelle Hold her in your teeth but no biting Yours Impossible

4TH CENTURY B.C. How beautiful, my wellbeloved, is your body of granite— It smites my eyes like an army with banners. Your lips are the red wine poured from goatskin bags, Your brows are warriors' full-drawn bows, Your glances the arrows they shoot therefrom, And your hair is the mane of a lion, tawny and thick. 17TH CENTURY Let us not love tonight past mind But stifle our intent Lest blazing passion, unconfined, Provoke imperilment. Against the dark, our fierce desire Would flare too bright for sight, So must we tame our blinding fire And bank it for the night. With luminating dawn's return And appetite's increase Our lusty flame can safely burn In furious release. 18TH CENTURY Since even modest airs and prudish dress May not deter rash beaux from wantonness, Can your unsullied innocence o'ervault Concupiscent intention to assault? My sweet, have no misgivings, for you wear So plainly insurmountable an air That ogling lechers, hunting am'rous game, Will blush, apologize, and flee in shame. 19TH CENTURY Ethereal nightingale, gallantly singing Your heart out in rich melodies To insentient stones, earless trees, And indifferent insects, forsake them! Go winging To town like a dart to the mark, I implore you, And, serving as courier bird, Tell her who is waiting this word: "I'm locked in my room and can't come but adore you."

you save me half a bag of skins, the hard parts, my fav, dusted orange with hot • you say we can’t go to the bar cause you’re taking your braids out i come over, we watch madea while we pull you from you • you make us tacos with the shells i like & you don’t • i get too drunk at the party, you scoop my pizza from the sink with a solo cup, all that red • you, in the morning, bong water grin, wet chin • you, in the lawless dark, laughing like a room of women laugh at a man who thinks his knowledge is knowledge • i text you & you say,i was bout to text you, bitch • you cook pork chops same way i do, our families in another city go to the same church • you, rolling a blunt, holding your son, is a mecca • you invite me out for drag queens on the nights i think of finally [ ] • you pull over in Mississippi so i can walk a road my grandfather bled on • you gave me a stone turtle, it held your palm’s scent for a week • i call your mama mama • you request like a demand,make me some of that mango cornbread i cut the fruit, measure the honey • you & you & you & you go in on a dildo for my birthday you name it drake, you know me • a year with you in that dirty house with that cracked-out cat was a good year • at the function, i feel myself splitting into too many rooms of static you touch my hand & there i am • do you want to be best friends? a box for yes, a box for no • did our grandmothers flee the fields of embers so we could find each other here? friend, you are the war’s gentle consequence • i am the prison that turns to rain in your hands • you, at my door the night my father leapt beyond what we know you, dirt where i plant my light • the branches of silence are heavy with your sweet seed • you smell like the milk of whatever beast i am • your poop is news, your fart is news, your gross body my favorite song • you, drunk as an uncle, making all kinds of nonsense sense i listen for the language between your words • & when we fight, not a ring, but a room with no exit we spill the blood & bandage the wound, clean burns with our tongues • if luck calls your name, we split the pot & if you wither, surely i rot • we hate the same people, we say nigga please with the same mouth • & before we were messy flesh, i’m sure we were the same dust • everywhere you are is a church, & i am the pastor, the deacons, the mothers fainting at the altar • as long as i am a fact to you, death can do with me what she wants • my body, water, your body, a trail of hands carrying the river to the sea • i ink your name into my arm to fasten what is already there • i would love you even if you killed god • you made coming out feel like coming in from the storm • you are the country i bloody the hills for • you love me despite the history of my hands, their mangled confession • at the end of the world, let there be you, my world • god bless you who screens all my nudes, drafts my break-up text • you are the drug that knocks the birds from my heart • ain’t no mountain, no valley, no river i wouldn’t give the hands for comin’ to you sideways • o the horrid friends who were just ships harboring me to you • & how many times have you loved me without my asking? how often have i loved a thing because you loved it? including me • & i always knew • with yo ugly ass