Poem #82


for Denise Bullock

Merrium-Webster says she
knows about the color gray; we
know not whether it is black,
nor we know not whether if it’s

Afternoon is not day nor night,
mestizo, mixed-blood.

I go with men and women;
there are shades of gray on the
southern horizon–blue gray,
gray and pearl layers fan in the
background clouds.

In the middle of the fields:
dung lung into feed the fields.

And in the foreground,
I drive.

“I am alone,” I tell myself that.

I am angry at the mercantile of
men: the memory…

Ethics are gray,
until we hurt someone.

Gender: what does the word

What do I know, of love,
working on a graduate degree
or working in a factory, maybe,
a social science teacher
teaches me we have enough
(enough bureaucracy) what about

Let there be one more for
whom I adore; sin is sin
enough–there are enough
laws below and above physics
to calculus. I am uncomfortable
enough in my own skin.

Where we need to begin
is to tell our closest Governor,
is to tell our closest pastor,
husband, wife, friend, or

I love you, who
you are, what you do
and allow love–
humans need love,
no matter who we kiss,

to be, as the wind, blowing,
through the streets, while I lo
this burden in death till we part
from the time we marry to the
one we love

and the l, the g, the t, the b are

and let this poem put my fears
at ease that we are not so
Narcissus we see no other stream
besides our own

Please, I love you, I love you, I
love you, I love you.

Yet these words are not
enough, my love, for when you
are dead I may not be by you,
my love,

I may not see our wedding ring;
others may erase our being.
Decency, decency is when
human is humane is when
cruelty may end
with you, my family, my love,
my friend.

24 March 2015


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