december-21-2012

December 21, 2012

for Mo

I.

The world was supposed to end
the day we met, but
it didn’t.

And I hate to
admit it,

but I think we were both
disappointed. Still thirsty
for apocalypse, still
thirsty for the end
of every
dive bar
blurred eyes
non-
memory.

You and I— becoming
the
too hard
too fast.

Afraid the past might
catch us up,
unwilling to trust
something so fickle
as future

II.

I have moved you into and out of
three different houses. Carted boxes
all over the city, become
intimate with the weight
of your living. The ache of it
deeper than muscle.

Imagine

packing those boxes
one last time. Carefully sealing inside
the books and clothes and memories

the guilt and shame and history
and finally, your swollen
tender, beating heart.

We could use a brick to weight the U-Haul pedal.

Watch the whole thing
bubble and sink to the silted
bottom of the Willamette. Walk home
to sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by
all your new

nothing.

Can you imagine anything so empty?
Can you imagine anything so free?

III.

If I could give you anything

it would be
a room to come home to

in the house of
your own life.

A heart like a
hardwood door–
something ancient,
and sturdy; 

something to withstand
the beating.

Something
that requires permission
to enter.