Exile
Exile is a long walk, an intricate tattoo, soon
it has grown into your face—Daniel Simko
Your mouth sounds clearest
across the ocean. Language rises
into a cloud of saliva and mosquitos
that kiss like you. When the land
opened its mouth, you didn’t
listen. Agree with the proverbs and sing
the same songs. Secure
yourself, plate armor identities
cover what’s identical. You were naked, never
weighed down, your wings made
of eyes launched you over the sea. I can’t
move—I love your touch. Would your words
lose meaning if I flew? I kissed the devil
like a corpse flower, you drew
a bowstring taut and aimed at my liver. The message
hurt my hands. Know I regret
each closed eye. When I side with memory, I trap myself
in a hole where language jumps
over the barbed wire and sails away
in a Volkswagen. I discarded you
so I could write poems
to naturalize us.
Gigan for Semantics
the tears of a robot, the skin of a man—The Forgetters
You are in motion and I sleep
under a mountain of covers that want
to suffocate your brittle frame. Wander
through the room as a nomad, borrow
my head and pull out words: creation both
as self and other. You’re an unknown,
the final fax machine unable to integrate
electrical impulses, the twinkie that survived
the apocalypse for a thousand years, still tasting
overly processed. Never regret your resilience,
you are in motion and I sleep
as self and other, an unknown.
If we were reversed, I’d kiss your head, rock
you gently—the last person who could feel
your veins pulse, the last person
who could smother you into silence.
