Peter

I’ve been this side of my window

all year, marking time—have

you grown up yet?—watching leaves

change, cliches, the seasons

do what they do, and I’ve aged well

beyond twenty-eight, pirated 

by the weight of waiting all this

out. The ticking in my belly

thickens like the beating beetle

announcing the witch’s death, 

pricking my eyes wet, hair grey,

a second wrinkle to the right

of my temple. I’ve been fingering

thimbles, rummaging drawers, begging

the cornered dust in my room

to take me to you, but my thoughts

pin me to the floor, dagger to board, 

stranded—have you grown up

yet? You swore, hand to Wendy, but

the sill stays empty, ears pricked,

heavy, waiting for the never-

landing of your feet. Best liar

who ever made me believe the

inevitable angel thief would pass

over me, safe from the slaying,

aging. But the plague came while

I was waiting for you.

Quit Your God

Quit your god,

and go home 

to yourself. Ripen, prodigal

with conceit. You are the passion

fruit, limb, vine. Prune away

the purity imposed on your

everything. You have forsaken

the Lover, your self.

The why and wherefore is that you

are, therefore you are. Your way.

Come up off your knees, to stand

on your earth-soaked feet in praise

of you who are slow to abandon

yourself. You are sovereign moon,

yielding tide. Unplumbable darkness

cupped clear in two palms, wine 

turning back to water, power. Unholy

altar, make no sacrifice. 

Waves

Waves. 

Did you ever notice they hit both shores?

Somehow the water moves in both directions, 

Is pulled two different ways. 

I know something about that. 

And yet still. 

Zoom out, and it looks so still, 

Like it’s not moving at all,

Like it’s not in turmoil. 

I know something about that. 

Water. 

It’s so good at covering. 

It hides darkness like it’s easy

And keeps the lovely things to itself. 

I know something about that. 

Oceans.

They scare people -

Those who can’t handle mystery novels.

Only five percent of her has been read. 

I know something about that. 

But the moon, 

In all her steadiness, 

Bravely asks the waves to come. 

And they do. 

They are drawn to her. 

Who wouldn’t be?

She is constant, 

And the waves have never tasted something so strong. 

So when she asks them to move, 

They ask for direction. 

She says, “toward me,”

And they spend the rest of their lives trying. 

I know something about that.