On the ground, my legs make the
earth plural.
The multiple selves standing—
I provide the space of proving
the fact of more space needing to be provided.
As where one foot plants in the self-assured
knowledge of
yes,
this is me.
As where another foot hovers,
unsure of which earth
on which to stand.
Because this is me standing,
And this is me unshivering.
And this is me,
the plurality of
yes.
*
As where I sit outside,
global warming providing me warmth
with just a hoodie.
Summer in January.
*
And I remember the sound of
her voice in her whetted eyes.
And there was the hard conversation
as where I held my knees up to my chest.
And the leather furniture clenched our bodies.
And our eyes took hold of the feel of
hearts beating in rhythm,
the cyclicity of our melodic conversing,
skin stretching, closing in on the space inhaling
between our bodies.
And I hear the late January sun striking her eyes.
Because there we were.
Because here we are.
And because this is the hard wooden floors
that keeps us steady.
As where steady is a word that
sinks into our bellies.
Because this is the space we need.
As where here I wait on a metal bench,
the January cold not evident.
And I wait.
And I pause for her.
And I smoke.
And I write.
As where this feels right.
As where it has always felt ripe,
the idea of her skin moving closer to mine.
As where the silver wisps
of smoke and breath
integrate into the air.
Because I wait,
always.
And I love.
My feet planted on the ground.
