They call it quiver because an archer is supposed to hesitate
before he shoots. Arrows, fresh or trusted, are works of art,
crafted, and exist in their own right. You, too,
exist in your own right, and are scared before you shoot.
We all are.
They call it quiver because an archer reaches down and
the arrow shakes. Even with grave practice, and the steadiest
of hands, the arrow will shake for its life sake. You, too,
can’t help but twitch, as the mercury-taste fills your throat and
you swallow.
They call it quiver because that’s what it is. The tension between
before and now, after, what have we done? The hand feeds you,
holds the apples, but can also make you starve. And you, too,
feel the strain, of pulling back, as you draw the bow, and
take your aim.
when you put your hand on the table
i could feel your pulse
through the wood.
i closed my eyes then,
imagined crawling and pressing
my ear to your chest
to hear your heart beat,
to feel your heart. opening,
i reached out to your shirt.
but i could never bear to touch.
I picture us both riding the same waves, and sometimes we synch.
The waves that flow between us link up so perfectly
it’s hard to stand that sometimes, I know I sink
under and we loose balance with the other. Our eye contact
is under-maintained as the salt water makes its way
inside. Blurring and also cold.
But also waves like the ones you can’t see
but bring you the tv and radio and light and sound.
Those waves between us are something else,
I can’t touch them but they’re there. But
still always I don’t have reception. I power down.
Light doesn’t reach this part of the universe, or
They haven’t discovered this type of wave yet.
Something like that.
But when we synch, we synch! That which bounces out of me
will gladly bounce into you. Grab my hand, can you feel it?
That’s electricity and we are conducting.
That’s magnetic, and we are attracting.
I don’t understand science,
I only understand feelings.
And I know opposites make the world
make sense. And everything eventually is equal,
Yin and yang. But what if I drown?
Well, then you’ll go on floating.
It’s enough to preserve balance,
and so synching goes.
I dreamed about whales
and watching them, after I met you.
Beneath me and the water they jutted out from nowhere
or a crack in the glass of the aquarium.
And whales are so big, bigger than picture books could ever
prepare you. The orca even, as big as my first-story house
and the humpback, grey like clouds only closer: like fog.
The whales were so close beneath by feet,
my soles felt their slippery hide as they skimmed under-
neath. And their skin was cold, wet, like a fish. But inside
their hearts beat and their blood ran
warm as the flesh between.
there is a darkness in the spaces
between a frame and the wall, a closet
and the clothes, a painting
and the edges. there is light
also- gushing from the source
the lightbulb burning through the glass
and the red of your palm.
maybe your bones have had
enough- of the push and pull
of living like you will forever.
and your heart too, because you
won’t. and then, the strain of
your neck- lifting your head always
towards the light. Look harder for the dark,
for the absence of light
will still glow for a while.
I want you like a blister
I’m so used to feeling
the sting of
it’s a shock when I reach for it weeks later
and it’s healed.
