#FlyMyLoves

Singing to a thousand faces

I toss every voice I know into

a void of endless smiles

of pains, felt along the crevices of

otherhood, womanhood, manhood.

The misplaced fist of oppression

deigning itself an authority

as if the very fact that it is a fist

gives it power.

 

I feel your lips,

opening to release any amount of faith

into this unforgiving plane of

anonymous palms,

knuckles laced with

ignorance

and iron.

 

I see you all there,

still smiling.

You’ve been hurt too many times to

release such blooms of

every single color

that ever made

a heart swell.

Yet, here you are.

Perhaps your mouths aren’t

spread, but pursed.

You can’t fool me, loved one.

You’re still smiling.

Beneath your glowing face

is an even brighter being of

calm acceptance.

 

“My time has not come.

I cannot soar as easily as those

born with the ‘correct’ structure,

the ‘optimal’ wingspan,

decided long ago by birds

too tricked by their own ‘flight’

to consider swimming

to even whisper the word, no–

they would rather the world had no water at all

than accept there are those of us

who swim.

And yet here I am.

The sky is no longer out of reach, for

our hearts have become the sky.

Together, we swim in our own

grinning, multicolored ocean.

For you see,

you silly, two-winged, single-beaked birds,

There was never flight.

There was only travel.

You put that name there

to keep us out

to make us feel as if

we could never touch the clouds.

 

I say this with love–

fuck you.

We will bring the clouds down here with us

and playfully dress them up

as your enraged fists.

Watch as they burst into nothingness

against the waves crashing

over our pool party.

Maybe once you accept Travel,

and calm down about your

traditional wingspan–

which NO ONE is attacking, by the way–

maybe then you can come to our party.

 

But you had better bring

a shit ton of floaties

and be prepared to accept

that every single one of us

was born beneath this sky

and none of us have the right

to define

‘flight’.”

 

Bus Poem #2

They sit closely

rocked by the steady rhythm of travel

young in skin, old in eyes.

He wears his hat off the beaten path,

she strokes his arm in comfort,   protection.

Their hands clasped

like they buckle each other in

shielding one another

from the weight of each bump,

from every over-zealous mouth surrounding.

“Damn kids,” says the glare from the seat across

examining their faulty attire

as if the entire world should be composed

of buttons and belts and corduroy

with no slack in between.

He leads their front as they depart,

she watches their behind

(just to be certain).

Everything they own

resides in their stride

and as such,

the dust of the street

doesn’t harm much.