With Impunity: an old-fashioned love poem.

I was supposed to stay in the

labor fields, the kitchens, the delivery jobs

the sites of suns and nails and hammers and hatred

all the lemon of yellow drained, the remaining

hours of night saved for the typewriter, then a

battle into sleep before the next one started as

ugly as the last

To awake on my back with the arch of your foot

upon my shin, your breath in my ear, your

fingers curled atop my chest, the smell

of your skin like the orange blossoms

that scent the sidewalks beautiful

in the dirt of what was

an old city, an old job, the old wreckage of blood

and blister and bone,

sweat and purple skin

I rest my hand upon your naked spine

while your ribs meet mine like fingers lacing

all the suns now falling to death, to give me

one back, up high

A letter in my inbox says

congratulations on the writing,

you’ve made it

but I made it long

before this,

back in the old apartment

when we danced our first dance

slow

and

certain.