BJ Love



I am a hillside full of fiddler crabs
and you are the incoming tide and
what we are about to do is brackish
but tender in its filling, brackish
but filling in its tenderness. Let’s talk
about the mangrove, about detritus
about how perfect we’ve become
at making each other dance. Grab
my big hand and another begins
to grow almost immediately. How
dirty do we have to get before our
molting begins? Seriously, I can’t
stand to see you in those clothes
and yes, this poem is no more than
a cheap regeneration of every poem
but love is a tough fucking shell
to crack and yet, here I am, my arms
in that shape that lets you know I
want you, my heart, a million little
scurries scuttling right towards you.


“The clouds get enough attention as it is…”

I have been talking to this storm for too long
a time to find so little enlightening. Look, I paid
good money for this and this is nothing but
a room full of trophies someone else won and I
just don’t feel right standing amongst them like
I am. This tour was supposed to show us the real
places we see on our TV’s and I want to get sexy
in all of them. My tongue is a road that leads
directly to my heart. That’s hardly absurd; think
perspective, think pulsing, think vanishing point.
There was a time when I believed that thunder
was just a matter of appreciation, a good round
of applause, the greatest of all rollings, but lately
I feel it’s just an appeasement my own boredom.
It’s stupid, and you’re stupid for reading about it.
Truth is, we could have stopped anywhere and I
would have been amazed. You see, God loved
us enough to give us all sorts of directions, but
soon, the ocean will pull tight its sunrays and this
day will finally take flight. And when it does, I will
be glad that there are actual ends to our rainbows
that we get actual destinations to plug into Google
actual times we can plan on being there, and actual
prayers we can chant like a game, punching each
other’s arms every time we reach another amen.



I am just a prayer for hanging on
but you, O you, you are a prayer
for all kinds of flying and we, yes
we are in bed, smooshed together
in a fit of skin, in a fit of fleeing
and falling and feeling and then
just when it seems I will slip off
you hold your feet just so and now
I can take you up like an offering
like a blessing, like any collection
of sex and kisses and fingers and
sex and seriously, how long must
I wait and how good must we be
before our heads can rest on each
other’s chests? Every Eucharist
necessitates an eating, and every
penance a false ideal. You keep
slipping through my hands like
a ropeburning, like a chappening
and though I know not to use long
words, I’m afraid this is the South
and I can’t seem to keep myself
from pronouncing them that way.

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