Forgot my birth, forgot my death.
I think people want to get kidnapped, and I only say this because it’s been confided to me countless times, and also the obvious: if kidnapping were more like a harmless, unknown sense of adventure.
You hold the advantage of being completely unaccountable for whatever may happen. You have, after all, been kidnapped. What do you know? A kind of magic begins to collect in the night air.
Late-night Summers in my early twenties,
me and my girl-friends would call boys & friends up if we were close to their camp, tell them to get ready because they were about to get kidnapped by us, and hang up.
Everyone got ready.
I have peasant hands
and love them. Their surface
has created, felt worlds of texture,
caressed skins. They are gentle.
The plants outside droop, sleepy
I get into the bath, all hair & oils
Massage myself, my calves
between my own hands, gentle.
Sweat & warm lilac lullaby
held lungs, a tear slides off down
beside the candle
I am loved, often and dearly,
But I am rarely touched
Hope is led quietly out
the back door of our place.
Darkness falls in her wake.
She’s stayed with me, sleepless
nights after walking these streets
in a white gown,
a gun gloved in her hand
I let her out the door for myself
she winks at my heart
and mouthes your name
but it’s how she says it
— Hope’s Gun