Go To A Museum

I have renamed

my grief                      Body

for how little               I understand it.

Cosmically speaking,

I am an afterthought,

or, too small to be

spoken to tenderly.

My own stomach                                and blood

            call me by other

                                    names. Cosmically speaking,

I love him. But this

                                    is not a sex poem.

This is not a poem

                                                about how the body learns

                        itself horizontally.

So what

if his frame

                        is a sculpture? Go to a museum,

there are more.

                                                            This isn’t a sex poem,

this isn’t about

                        how I already call him

family behind                                                  closed doors.

This isn’t a poem.

                                                This isn’t a poem.

            This isn’t a poem.

     This isn’t a poem. 

                                                This isn’t a poem.

This is

                        Joy speaking to you   

like a lover,

throwing small rocks              at your window,

writing down everything

it loves            about you.

I promise, Joy

is breathing,

naming itself

in your mother’s tongue. Joy

                                                is casting long shadows,

            not muddled by midnight, kissing

the asphalt with your shoes.

                                    Joy has named this year

progress and taken pictures.

                                    Joy speaks

like the right kind                               of family.

                                                Joy,

let me tell you:

I love him.

I love him. Halleluj-

ah, I am sorry.

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 Cover photo by Bernadetta Watts