Losing Altitude

He bends to kiss the ground at airports,
but I never see him with dirt on his lips. -Jim Daniels

On my lunch break, the guys from work
ask if I'll join them tonight for
drinks at the bar.
I shake my head, tell them you're flying in this evening.
After work, I get in my blue Accord.
I head West on the 16.
I take the ticket, wait for the gate to lift.
I walk to baggage claim. I circle the carousels
looking for a brown duffle bag with bright green fabric
tied in a knot to the long tan strap. Your only
identifiable feature.

At night I fall asleep and imagine you
in sandals.
I see you walking where He walked,
on a flat escalator
in the Atarot Airport, looking for gate B23.
In the mornings, when I make love to my wife,
I see you lying where she lies.
The sun breaking through the crack in the red curtains.
A tiny sliver of light covering her bare stomach.
But I know you're in Helsinki, in a hotel room on the 8th floor.
It is the middle of the night there. The lights are turned off,
your hands gripping tightly, your lips
pressing gently against the stubble of his chin,
As he rubs his fingertips up and down
the tiny sliver of light covering your bare stomach.
On my way to work I see you stepping into a cab
in Edinburgh, heading for the airport. To catch an early flight.
To layover in London. To see the clock tower from 4,200 feet.

I see you taking long strides down a steel corridor
filled with musty air.
As you wrap your arms around my waist,
I thrust my head into your chest and
listen to the slow beating of your heart.
I try to smell it on you,
the unknown place that somehow called you back to me.
You casually ask how I've been.
What can I possibly say to someone who travels
religiously like you?
The only thing I think to ask is if
you are coming or going.
Your half smile tells me it is neither.
Or is it both?

Fabrications

Fabrications

Can they watch us mimic their kisses, embrace our own backs, burrow hands beneath our bedclothes? – Bernard Cooper

We spend the stolen afternoon between

the blue sheets my parents bought me for Christmas.

Gravity pressing our shapes into the foam

of my twin-sized mattress, like the time we drove

to Snow Bunny to leave our imprints in the freshly fallen

snow. I am curled lightly into the small of his lower back,

eyes closed. I hold my breath steady and slow, like I have

done for him so many times before, so he could watch me

while I didn’t sleep. I wait for his muscles to grow

tight around his bones urging him to shift, to wrap himself

around me. As he turns he runs his fingers

above the skin on my arm, down to the place where my hands

are tangled in blankets. He gently unravels me from my quilted

encasement, pries my knees from my chest, hooks his leg

around mine, and pulls me apart. His fingers run over my spine, pressing each

finger deep into my vertebra, the way Enki and Ninmah did

that day on the river bank, shaping the wet earth into figurines

of men. My own muscles loosen
and give their consent as he rolls me

onto my back. I keep my eyes closed as he spreads

himself over me, slips one hand under my shirt, while the other

tangles fingers into my hair. Lips brush across my forehead,

kisses my nose, and rests his lips on mine, unlocking

my own. He gently sighs, and I breathe him into

my lungs.

Flatmates

“Tha’ mustn’t go walkin’ about in corridors an’ listenin’”
~Frances Hodgson Burnett

There are seven steps between your door and mine
The path is littered with my clothes and your books on the floor
Pieces of you and me intertwined

Rent checks deposited, standing empty handed and blind
Distant and alone, but not anymore
There are only seven steps between your door and mine

On the first day we shared the number 34 bottle of hair dye
Both of us too shallow, too lonely; both of us too poor
Pieces of you and me intertwined

Friday he came with ripped jeans and bottled wine
Your laugh rippled, fell and slithered underneath your door
There are a thousand steps between your door and mine

I waited, ear pressed to the paint, till light broke past the window vines
Spilled in the hall way, the aftermath of the war
Everywhere, pieces of you and him intertwined

He left with your lace crumpled in his pocket, I stood to the side,
Choked on my forced laugh, embraced you, jokingly called you a whore
Only seven steps between your door and mine
Wishing for pieces of you and me intertwined

Ninja Quest Week 2

For this weeks ninja quest:
1. Go to your book shelf
2. Pull the fifth book on the second shelf from its place
3. Turn to page 87
4. Choose a line or passage to inspire a poem
This ninja assignment is due on Friday. Happy ninja-ing.