“Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It’s that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that’s what the poet does.”—Allen Ginsberg (via apoetreflects)
red with Chianti, slicked around the rim of a glass half-full slips a harmonic: sere, sweet vibration a cricket would make if it could sustain its dumb broken one-note.
Porch: evening low-slung from telephone wires. Wine on my finger, put to lips: a way of thinking that begins in the mouth. Because when I say it it is both the thing and not the thing you can’t say the word without the throat opening of its own accord—ä— ache just now, just a little past the tongue’s work—k—cut, thrust forward in the mouth, can’t think without tasting saliva.
Maudlin now, ridiculous tippler of awful Chianti—his favorite— I find myself mouthing—short fat shock of it—practicing, word that opens and closes around nothing in the mouth, needs no articulate tongue and no teeth but breath. Undressed, he was a thousand metaphors, anything but flesh the quality of light within his skin, a sheen both supple and subtly stubbled—like thick handmade paper—
it held its own shadow. Undressed, a thousand metaphors for loss, the way I realized a room holds two bodies differently from one only after he’d gone, a certain gracious angle of the interrupted cigarette forgotten in the ashtray, a solicitousness in the light’s awkward fall down his back, dizzying splay of angles.
He loved to make me beg, say the word I blushed to say— ripe-tipped plum teased on the tongue—because it’s bad to want it and even worse to put it in your mouth, both the thing and not the thing, and each time when finally he’d fuck me
all words were hands, each syllable a finger pulling thought taut as a sheet and I understood how sudden language can die in the body, the locked dark box of the throat the emptiest pleasure: