Short Poems: "you and i" ... (Nayyirah Waheed spur)

every day begins

by crushing things:

i want you this much—

bitter,

need you this much—

cream,

am you this much—

sweetsour,

closing eyes, and 

swallowing.

– breakfast

                                                                           *

every time

i shout “you are wrong”

louder, to cross the distance

i am laying out between

our breaths.

– wrong

                                                 *

now is the time

to cease breathing,

to hold nothing,

and un-learn:

grasping makes 

a closed-empty hand;

feeling makes 

a calm-growing wave,

knowing 

that all pulsing cells 

are such—

liquid.

– swim

                              *

i can only pretend 

every haircut 

is not 

also the same dream

that i am peeling away 

this wrinkle-rust coat of age

to be left with 

nothing but lessons,

a pale-fresh skin.

– shaving

                                      *

i feel 

fingertips 

laying

loose arms 

across my back,

melting down-and-out 

every hard word (and its opposite), 

every tight wish (and its muscle), until i am 

one simple thing again: a bubble, 

bound to (and rising from) 

a universe.

– hug

Insane and beautiful ...

His name             was tank.

A tortoise               who always

                        Silently knew

What he          was doing.

    And he was right;

     I looked it up,

  One night when I

  Was missing him.

The Wildlife page

Said—          The male tortoise

                     May go years without

                         Encountering a female.

                But when one comes near,

                            The males can smell her

                            From miles away, and will

                            All converge at the spot,

                     Battling and shell-hooking,

                Shoveling and flipping one another;

                     Dying upended as their lungs collapse

                        Under their body organs, or else

                      Finally entering her: to grunt

                             That wordless song “your body

                      Calls my body to move this way”

                      As each would have practiced

                 On wet rocks. And the female

                  Is thinking quietly, we imagine,

            This is not so pleasant as the first

                    Fifteen times today.

                          *

I bought Tank in a store,

Where they kept males

Together, lit calm blue

And separated by thirty-six

Inches                    (not miles) from

females,             lit pale-red. Constantly,

The               males tried to break free,

                            And every so often

      Bashed a hole and ran wild—

    Never for the daylight, just

       For the pale-red light

“Your body calls my body...”

              *

             When I brought him home,

          For the first few weeks,

              I found him masturbating

                        Along his water bowl.

                          But then he set in to his

                                    Desert mode. And just ate

                                             Melon rinds, moved dirt,

                                   And traded shade with sun

                                Like an expert thermostat.

                                           When he could see the hills,

                                                        He would break out, so we

                                               Upgraded to wood fencing.

*

                                        And then he seemed accepting

                                               Of the bounded obstacle course

                                                  And hut and water bowl. Years

                                               Of seemed. Then, one

                                           Watermelon season, I came

                                                 With a gift-bucket of rinds

                                                And found a bashed,

                                                    Splintered hole.

                                                          Did he see a hill,

                                      Or smell her in the wind?

                                                I won't guess;

                                              I'll never know.

*    *      *

                   I went back into

My box, listened to

Dance music, read

A romance,

Dreamt of rioters

Bashing on a

Pet shop latch:

Insane and beautiful.

The patch-up ...

Let me be very clear,                                 again,

about the nature of                    my apology:

I never said that I am perfect,

but I do intend things flawlessly.

I didn't want to           come to                              this day:

with this habit of anxiousness          in my chest,

seeing cycles of discontent in your cheeks—

an absence of passion, presence, rest.

And I did intend, in my time               with you,

to be kind and loving, fair and    open.

But I still have feelings; they hit me first,

before I ever imagine your          hopes and

worries, your wants and frustrations. Now

it took you getting really, violently mad

to finally tell me straight what you      wanted,

and show it in your face. And for that        I'm glad.

I'm glad we stayed in, and talked lying down

without opening eyes, just speaking          on breaths:

too tired for anything other than                         honesty;

beyond redacted histories and tricking                tests,

just our own values, aims, and the places        where

they meet. It felt like a first encounter  affair.

Like, “Hi— what's your name?” 

                                 Where a cautious

smile cleanses like lemon 

                                   oil, sage 

                                               in the air.