Before you were born I binge-watched Hoarders.
The hours ample as the antelope
I imagine trampling me whenever
I forget to dream. I watched women
wear nothing but yellow as they bricked
themselves in Barbies little forts of soul
less bodies loneliness a shade of lip
balm and a few prize-winning doilies
men who sang suppurating songs to rats
named Adolphus and Ben. Son I watched and
did not love them. Saw their weariness wick
and bubble but did not budge. I had not yet
layered that champagne glass with the first chop
of your sunshine striated locks or cut
a swath from the cushion where your head sweat
once bloomed did not understand that barriers
could be built by braiding all your residue.
Love is forever a holding onto.
So how come they beseech me to let go?
(no more umbilical cord crust mummified
by the bed post no more quilt of spit
up rags stitched above the bureau) they don’t
want to believe love is obscene. They want
the pink pattern of moderation.
Lips to ease off lips breath to exist
as a poised pant the perfect counter
part to the soft parlay of a kiss.
But son I am sloppy with bliss. And I
refuse to contain any of it. So
let the Florida morning file across your cheeks
turn to me and babble not words please
but the moonlight that seeps through the spokes
of a bridge your voice the uncease of lunar heat.