The Brooklyn Rail

Chariot

I brought in my thirties
    flaying you out
over a wooden bar table.

Moving across the dance floor
       a thick, neoned procession

I part through living architectures
of men
    or
ideas of men
     or
ghosts–
      I still can’t be sure.

The only one in the room
fully clothed–
   the air kneads
at my skin;
     a public fantasy
        contact high.

Your flesh pulls at mine
in such a predictable manner.

An overly rehearsed choreography
of assumed dominance
      offered countless times before.

I witness
   (with amusement)
this inadequate attempt
   to turn my body
into a response–

but I am nobody’s offering.

On the way to the club
I left the tulips Cecilia gave me
          delicately threaded
between the brass door handles of the building
   where Felix had died
Twenty six years before;

           What a fucking generational ricochet.

I’m still not sure
what it means to be
    both
daughter
to some
and
father
     to oneself
   at the same time.

But if the night
    is my mother,
then I
     am your chariot

Under the red sky
     I guide you.

My fingers: the bridle
   You take on the shape
of a god-fearing stance
as I press your cheek into the altar

L’Estasi di Santa Teresa
   I know that this is holy work.

How divine it is
     that we both
enter
    and
leave
this world
    in the dark.

Your Hand In Mine

Two bodies
birthed unto ourselves

Anointed
   and against
so many odds–
        We are Here.

Impossibility made flesh
     your hand in mine

Do not tell me
   there is no such thing
        as magic.