Poem In Praise Of My Boyfriend (after Diane di Prima)

I suppose it hasn’t been easy living with me either,

with my paper stacks and candle ends, catatonic heart and the way

I always have to be right, even

when I’m not.

Keeping you up at night 

with my questions and small nags and are you sure

you still love me? 

It’s been a long time since I asked last Tuesday.

Are you sure you haven’t changed your mind?

And you, 

never doing the dishes when you say you will, always eating my best snacks, 

waking me

in the middle of my best dreams. 
Did I set an alarm? Are the house keys

around? 

Move over, I’m

falling off the bed,
and yet,

we cling to each other, 

claws against shoulder blades, dents

where there might have been wings had evolution treated us more kindly,

your elbows

stopping the house from falling down. 
I remain more dirt and grime than housewife,

more parade of insufficiency than anything

bordering clean, 

and you

are a mess of guitar strings and half formed dreams,

but we fit. 
And maybe 

that’s enough. 

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I Do Not Love You Like A City

Falling in love with you was more like falling down stairs.

I still have the bruises, you the splintered hand 

but we got to the bottom in the end.

Clumsily, 

maybe. 

But you said,

mouth full of pomegranates and hair like autumn leaves, you
said

that’s how cities grow.

Messy. 

In all

sorts of strange shapes, side streets jutting out like weeds
against rows 

of fascinating grime and bustling main roads. 

I thought 

I ought to love you like that.

We are good on Thursday nights especially.

Last week we made wizard staffs from beer cans and watched
shitty horror movies,

the chorus of your commentary making me double over, laugh

like there was not a care in the world.

As if I 

hadn’t just quit. As if there weren’t still tears in
my eyes.

As if there was nothing else in the world but you and I.

The scent of your musky whiskey madness clouds my
judgement. 

I am an island

born of blood and beach,

but if you, my darling, are the sea,

then you have made quite the pirate of me.
I don’t love you like a city,

full of urban jungles to unwind and streets flooded with
light, 

you are not small enough for that.

Not dark enough for that.

Not blood enough for that.

No.
I love you salt water, 

stings in cuts, ocean waves and
gentle drifting.

I love you mysteries creeping out from your depths,
unfathomable secrets to unfurl. 

I love you sideways, and upside down,

cause when you’re under water it’s all the same.

I love you tsunami, oil spill, great white’s clapping jaw, 

hidden hurricane and drowning victims alike. 
Cities produce ghetto, produce poverty, 

lie their homeless out to dry on wet pavement. 

There is always

fear there,
but the sea, 

oh the sea, 

I cannot think of a part that does not call to me.