dinner reservations

1/11/2022

every evening in the kitchen i watch you cutting onions with tired eyes and heavy arms fresh from work cutting onions without being asked because they make my eyes water and i watch you so intently with such severity trying to communicate telepathically that i would do absolutely anything for you without question and without complaint if it meant a lifetime of watching you cutting onions in the kitchen after we’ve both finished work and arrived home in the dark to make dinner together for the hundredth time shoulder to shoulder with the big light off and the little lights on to watch the same shows cross-legged on the floor and again i look at you with full belly and warm heart my eyes finding the words my mouth can’t to say thank you for cutting the onions when you got home from work even though your arms are tired and eyes heavy even though i didn’t ask you to because you know they make my eyes water and i would do anything for you without complaint without question if we could do this evening again a hundred more times

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to the daughters of builders who drive white vans

on the 6am train the men smell like my father; red bull, cigarettes, dried cement - they wake up like my father i feel safe in this carriage, these men are my father, any man with a van and one arm out the window, sunburnt from the elbow down - the infamous builder’s tan - seats so dusty i can’t breathe and i have lungs like my father, full of second-hand smoke and concrete, a touch of asbestos, i should weep for my father but my pockets are healthy i am told by my father whose hands shake as he brings another beer to his lips at 10am on a saturday morning, this is coping for my father these men cope - cope like my father - with the asbestos lungs, uneven tans, shaking hands, muscles in constant pain, water on the brain, the ever encroaching grasp of old age; with substances up the nose they unwind like my father this kind of masculinity doesn’t last forever, you know...

i can only write when i am thinking about God

I can only write when I am thinking about God and sometimes God is God and he loves me, most of the time he does not the hand that feeds me overpowered by teeth that bite he visits me at night like a shark smells blood he smells lust, guilt, and greed brought to my knees, voice hushed he picks apart my greed and my lust promising to forgive, to forget he will make me repent and regret, any pain or pleasure at his expense provided in selfless restoration a gift of his affections exchanged for endless loyalty God is not always God, sometimes he is my lover he tells me he loves me, most of the time he does not I can only write when I am thinking about God

two foxes playing at a train station at night

rotten creatures, full of pestilence and noise run! chase the last train away the last human with it, bring your nuisance here your mischief, your trickery sovereigns of the night the earth is yours, run circles round each other leave tracks upon the floor, for the day folk to find and wonder the secrets of your tiny paws

my love

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