distance thinks of suicide and stretch marksI am finally half a year behind in the past,
I thought it would never last, the future
is never near, never here,
and you, my dear, you
are too fast, too crude when you disappear.
see, you've pioneered
invisibility to the point of mass
I never see enough and seem
to pass you by; I look
more than I overhear, but
I've heard you've come near
to permanence the way I have
to patience. I no longer go
door-to-door with reluctance, I don't
smell for dead gladioli or
taste the air for a hint of the scent
in your hair, I'm just
listening carefully for the papery trembling
of a white flag. but you've wrapped
yourself in newspaper headlines,
whispering life into my ears as if they
were a sacrifice, a burden on your
part but I was one to conform to life
because you're still breathing
in your heart.
you had once told me that your eyes
stung with a vengeance you weren't guilty
for, and I responded with a kindness just
as alienated as yours. you still whispered
life a burden and hoped t
looking back, unacceptingi. When I say I was all in, I imagined it a congenital accident--
tearing limb from my own limb to accept a disembodied lonely
across the tightrope of the universe.
I still hear your voice when I cannot sleep.
ii. I don’t remember when I wanted love to hurt at my mention;
all there is: my missing burned hotter than theirs,
my crushed felt too close to sand when theirs looked like shards at best,
my lonely was doused in acid made, truly, in Pakistan.
I stopped waiting for the pendulum to swing.
iii. When did forgiveness let your lungs breathe easier?
iv. I miss you for loving me despite everything, even
your own child.
v. I wish it was me, the one with whom it just
“worked,” where it was fluid like the siren-home I could never find.
I miss you in the way your collarbones dipped like a big blue
letting go of the land.
vi. I wish it had been me, just as I wish
It had been you.
2015/2016Open on empty stage, except for an empty shipping crate and an unopened IKEA box. The time: the second between 23:59 31st December 2015 and 00:00 1st January 2016. Two women (or queer men/trans*/black activists/etc.) sit in the centre. 2015 is insular, smoking a cigarette; she sits on the shipping crate. 2016 gazes out to the crowd, sometimes upwards; she sits on the unopened IKEA box.
2016: (years are pronounced as "twenty-sixteen", "twenty-fiteen", etc.) (excited) So... here we are. 2016. Sounds spacey, doesn’t it? Like from a sci-fi film. We’re well into the third millennium now; third time lucky, right? I’m excited for what’s going to come. The future isn’t as set as some think; it changes, moves, adapts. Sometimes the most beautiful things aren’t there yet, or stay forever as possibility... (pause) I’m going to be born in a downpour of fire and light. I can’t wait. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. The world will send up star
eyes after a slow-burned fireand if i breathed any slower
the monitor would scream
and i’d be dreaming i was dying
but it’s a different dalliance with the chest now
and i inhale deep to calm the heartbeat
(the bomb starts ticking when i see you)
walk in time with my breath my dear
bestow upon me the gift of time
connected eyes, mine are ponds
and yours are a moonlit forest
after settling from a fire