February 6, 2025
in the grave
of wishing for things
I found myself
rummaging
in each hand I weighed
the value of a dream
our infinity
is the kind contained
between two points
in the center
of a thumbprint
I chose to believe
the man I blessed
with my gold thread
would not betray me
my dancing floor
tired of only
being home
to a Minotaur
I wanted a man
with soft feet
used to sandals
to walk all over
me not as if
I were a step
to glory
but the low sand
struck by lightening
the low sand
where the waves
meet the pearls
close to the place
the sand mixes
with the pine needles
but though
he was a prince
I learned
like most princes
he did not keep
his promises
my cliff was steep
but then back set
against the wind
another came
to me patient
and crowned
in vines
I find
I prefer him
this my own
man who flickers
like fire
who knows the weight
of grapes
who even
when he drinks
never leaves me
his dark hair
his soft hair
like sheltering branches
sunlight spotted
like morning across
the skin
of sleek leopards
sometimes
the role of one man
is simply to
lead us to a better one
perhaps less
obviously heroic
but kinder
and brave
down to his bones
one who knows
like mine does
how to be
torn apart
and with hands
with lap
with mouth how
with a gold thread
of kept vows
to stitch
a soul together
a party boy
with insides
the color of compassion
who was raised
like a girl
and wears
wine like lipstick
my own Dionysus
kisses like ichor
who keeps company
with theater kids
and raving women
who prefers
the shade of forests
to all the tech-bro thrones
and golden prizes
reluctantly offered
by the big
daddy gods
of airy Olympus