Where The Sea Accepts Grief
In August and September
of this year, when I was living
in the interim of disbelief,
I gave you all
the monumental pieces of my life:
the words of my hands,
sounds of my voice,
playful and morose coins of unspent seduction,
my inconsistent pieces of God,
and all the letters of my faith.
I tried to give you the extra chromosome
and Autistic traits which frighten my neighbors,
but you couldn't take them.
I gave the shard and gelatin bits
of my marriage. Which I need
back, so I can glue them together, build
new capillaries of language. So I can speak
to my wife, say good-bye. Tomorrow or the next day
I'll walk to your beach,
shave off my hair
and swim into the blue churning of your arms.
I'll give the shavings, with whatever blood
the blade happens upon,
because it is the hairs that have ruined my life.