in those days

too often a lowing ox

grunting hooves stubborn

into thick dark mud, I fight for

ground against guiding hands,

full-body quivers shaking

dank ox-flesh when the sky

darkens, when valleys

crumble in, when

vultures scrape bones sleek 

with smooth cruel beaks. 

carry me home, good father,

my legs have been broken

in shame.

why didn’t you make me a sheep.

dumb submissive beasts

falling over themselves but

not too stubborn, not

born on the backs of

solid will.

the prophets say

“return to your god,”

they say 

“pay with the vows of your lips.”

but we are thick lipped people,

slurring as we cross ourselves, 

dipping holy water onto chapped lips,

fingers charred by Marlboro cigarettes.

fingertip filtering

when your head is on my lap,

i swear

there are a million little words that come

flooding into my fingertips.

i want to brush them onto you,

glaze your hair back sweet & sincere--

but they stick hard. buzz in my bones,

catch in my knuckles,

swirl deftly around my fingerprints so

like water boiling i feel their

fervor, percolating steady 

in delicate echoes

through this earnest quiet blood, 

unable to reach you

because words are not warm

enough to explain this hushed

heat between us, still & simmering & soft.

in the lamplight i trace your

profile, watch your face because 

it translates life in a way i

can put these small hands

around. catch the smile wrinkles

that squint your eyes,

hold them as they filter beneath

my buzzing thoughts:

heady white stuff seeping into

brain space that soaks

like tea leaves, spreading rich

& thick onto pastel dream worlds 

where i find the words

as i stroke your hair with

speechless fingers.

there, i know how to say everything we need,

there, i am not this bad at writing love poems.