Atmosphere
For J. Storm


Follow me, sweet man
kind and princely man.

There are moons in my childhood
beneath which you never slept
and beneath which I, in burnished curls of youth,
had soundlessly wept

for splintered ribs, for gaping wounds
for belonging, for not belonging
and for want of open fields,
that great gamble.

I would have come running home or
flown on wings of selenic light,

if I had only known you were waiting.

For A. Carstairs
Beloved Goddaughter


I thought, perhaps by now
I might look at you and
see a witch we both love dearly

might note a slight arch in your dark brow
quizzical, questioning, all at once
beauty and menace

or the way you laugh might
catch me off guard, at lunch

suddenly twenty years ago being asked the impossible,
noblest privilege I shall ever have

or your upturned sweet nose, skeptical thing,
demanding everything from this world
that you rightly deserve.

You are something else altogether, aren’t you?
Some new and terrifying sovereign
Some peculiar creature of the skies
nothing like what I thought.

Still, Alex, little girl whose hand I held ten pensive winters past.
There was snow and it was cold and we could see our cloudy breaths
but the thought warmed me then, as it does now,
to know we had one another
and have each other still.

Forest Penumbra
For J. Storm


There is a softness inside of you, Wildling
it bleeds into me at night

even this night, this haunting hour:
marbled moon on crackling forest floor
and unkept Tartarean curls suggesting sweet emotion,
poison the leaden air with strange fragrance.

Wilding, wild thing
infect the slightest hollows of my beastly hide
and claim the corners of my wicked mind
for it will have me no longer. Listen,

if we could but stay
if we could but sleep

perhaps I might dream of you. I, who never dream at all.

Myth
For J. Storm


I could never understand, before,
the motivations behind war.

Over so trivial a thing as man’s desire, they would die?
Lay their lives at the foot of a Mortal god and weep?
Murder, pillage, belabour?

But you cast a sane light on history, love
like Menelaus I, too, might have shrieked
and launched a thousand ships, burnt the topless towers
called upon every promise made in our names
for the sake of your sacred face

The dust would not settle on that battlefield
so long as I had breath, had heart
though Trojan blood may drip like wine
though mine own might stain their walls
I would prise their throats as once you offered yours
and Tartarus would drown for the first in a millennia.

No. The quill stills.
This feeling is greater than Spartan spear
or cowardly, coveting Paris

With a glance from you, I am kind
With a word, I would flee
and Spartans might know, again, what Love is

Love is peace
and Loving you, divine.

As a Precaution
For A. Carstairs


I have stolen your nose
plucked it like a gooseberry
and made you merry with laughter

placed it, to keep, in my pocket.

I have stolen your nose
pinched it right off your face
until one day, by smelly roses
and costly lace

you promise this old fool a dance.

I have stolen your nose
but I write this dream, as a precaution
and you might imagine the scene

In the heavy air of the dressing room
I take your hand, and your girlish waist
and hum some song, neither in haste,
and pretend you are little again
your funny feet on mine.

I have stolen your nose
so that when you twirl your skirts away
(away I cannot reach you there)
you’ll step right back with winning smile
to claim a promised prize

and I’ll pinch your nose, you little bean
and we might dance one final round?

one final turn, without a sound.

Morning
For J. Storm


Only blackness prevails my memory of sleep
that upon waking, colour is miracle
and your absence, tragedy

I have only just missed you
lingering traces of aftershave and
something uniquely yours

air that follows in the wake of lightning.

Unborn
For N. Spectre


Hello. Sister of mine.

I have come as wolf, not man
with mournful eyes - black as sin
with heaviness in my downy chest
to see you in this fitful rest

to which, I promise, gods attest
no other pain could match

you weep for Love of the unborn
and I weep, knowing as we mourn, that


Love was not enough.

St. Valentine the Ass
For R. Donovan


roses are red!
violets are blue!

Ira is a butt
and so are you

Quiet
For J. Storm


I want the quiet moments, too
hurried breakfasts and
Wireless still on as we're out the door

tired evenings home,
barely kisses and I rub your weary feet
we mutter nonsense of the day

and sultry, sticky spells
catching our breaths, coming down,
everything we say is “I love you”

or the dead of night, that lacking light
- when you’ve just dreamt of something dark
come here, come here, come here

I want to be your poison
I want the quiet moments, too.