I don’t call
it sleep anymore.
I’ll risk losing something new instead—
I’ll risk losing something new instead—
like you lost your rosen moon,
shook it loose.
But sometimes when I get my
horns in a thing—
a wonder, a grief or a line of her—it is a sticky and ruined
fruit to unfasten from,
a wonder, a grief or a line of her—it is a sticky and ruined
fruit to unfasten from,
despite my trembling.
Let me call my anxiety, desire, then.
Let me call it, a garden.
Let me call it, a garden.
Maybe this is what Lorca meant
when he said, verde que te quiero verde—
when he said, verde que te quiero verde—
because when the shade of night
comes,
I am a field of it, of any worry ready to flower in my chest.
I am a field of it, of any worry ready to flower in my chest.
My mind in the dark is una
bestia, unfocused,
hot. And if not yoked to exhaustion
hot. And if not yoked to exhaustion
beneath the hip and plow of my
lover,
then I am another night wandering the desire field—
then I am another night wandering the desire field—
bewildered in its low green
glow,
belling the meadow between
midnight and morning.
Insomnia is like Spring that way—surprising
and many petaled,
Insomnia is like Spring that way—surprising
and many petaled,
the kick and leap of gold
grasshoppers at my brow.
I am struck in the witched
hours of want—
I want her green life. Her
inside me
in a green hour I can’t stop.
Green vein in her throat green wing in my mouth
in a green hour I can’t stop.
Green vein in her throat green wing in my mouth
green thorn in my eye. I want
her like a river goes, bending.
Green moving green, moving.
Green moving green, moving.
Fast as that, this is how it
happens—
soy una sonámbula.
soy una sonámbula.
And even though you said today
you felt better,
and it is so late in this poem, is it okay to be clear,
to say, I don’t feel good,
to ask you to tell me a story
about the sweet grass you planted—and tell it again
or again—
and it is so late in this poem, is it okay to be clear,
to say, I don’t feel good,
to ask you to tell me a story
about the sweet grass you planted—and tell it again
or again—
until I can smell its sweet
smoke,
leave this thrashed field, and be smooth.
leave this thrashed field, and be smooth.
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