It’s late
and the heater is on
and you are the love of my life.
Is it okay for me to press like this?
Do you want me to re-light your cigarette?
Is this as mortifying for you
as it is for me?

I read a poem by Frank O’Hara and
almost died from wanting you. Surely, this is
all there is. The wet, orange light. The
dark mouth of november. The
rain hitting the pavement
and us.

Is it okay — really, is it okay — for me to press like this?
Tell me about your sister, how you cut yourself
shaving your legs, how the first
furtive touch of kindness left you trembling,
how you knelt so long that your knees bruised
and someone said your name and
you asked
“God?” and
God answered “No.”
I’ll stop, say the word, I’ll stop —
is it okay for me to press like this?

Desire is not a revolution I suppose
but I would fight for you nonetheless
I would hold up my fists against
the neighbors & the grandmothers & the many-deitied
people of the world:

WE WILL ALL DIE ALONE BUT I WILL DIE
LESS ALONE THAN YOU.

It’s late,
and the heater is on

WE WILL ALL DIE ALONE BUT I DIED A THOUSAND
TIMES LAST NIGHT AND IT DIDN’T HURT AT ALL

and you are the love of my life.

WE WILL ALL DIE ALONE BUT I WAS ONCE
TOUCHED BY A BEAUTIFUL CREATURE AND SHE
ATE SO SOFTLY OUT OF MY HAND.