michael king

stack of stained pages, redacted love letters, spilling ink, pressing it into tomorrow

bloodletting.

before you tell me, i
want you to know i know better
than to believe in this bleeding
to heal me, learned this the
hardest damn way, a
hundred cut cloths run red,
i know, i know, i know,
and my hands go wandering
to old wounds anyway

still pick at the scab that
stretched over your absence,
whisper languages buried, throat
still catches when i tell the story
of the torn up tickets, stop
saving meaningless things, dangle
my aching soles over the
edges of things i thought
would go on carrying me

most days, the stories seem
weightless, as natural in
my arms as a lover’s head resting,
but then my shoulders shake,
forehead damp as i let swell
the worry: am i so busy carrying
yesterdays i am dropping
my todays to the cracks
in the asphalt

were mine a mind of
the sciences, i wouldn’t dream
of peeling steel edges against
the shell of my wanting skin,
yet always i am mining, mining,
mining for meaning in the
wounds picked up along the way

knowing.

how soon is too soon,
futile question, unanswered,
heartbeat runaway, how
is it possible you
already feel familiar,
wander into this living room
and sink right into the
couch pillows

i want to know everything,
pace the library, where
in your chapters did
your heart first break,
what lessons were given
to you as bruises, can
i run my hands over
the length of your
spine, will you settle
with me in the
sunny corners, sweet
brown eyes, whisper
to me the secrets of
the universe

the wide wild geography
stretching between us, i
babble foolishly, trying to
say everything in sixty
seconds, hoping, believing
i am not just inventing
another chemistry, there’s
your face and
i’m yearning

there is blue in your
being, hushed and brilliant
and teeming with hope,
ivy stretching her way
up that which was once
broken, i have seen it,
small glimpses, i want
to paint all the walls

somehow, this time,
some things just feel
known, a river stream exhaling
as it bends round a fallen
log, knowing, trusting,
rolling gently ahead.

if i’m honest.

if i’m honest, i didn’t want this,
tried to dress this heart up
like the others, train these
hands to write the story
right, deepen my
voice, practice my walk,
tried to long after
the things i was promised
were meant for me

and, if i’m honest, i lost it,
fell to ribbons after ages of
bundling, held my
unraveled threads and
learned to breathe in
unfiltered air, practiced
trusting the color
of my heartbeat, threadbare

i owe love letters to
the hands that ushered me
forward, the first boy to
see me and pull me
closer, love like ivy
stretching across all
my concrete artifice,
to the friends who handed
me rainbows on the
mornings i could only
forecast flooding

i never did so much
trying as i did before i
let this self be, all the
try, try, try screeching to
silence the moment i
allowed myself aloud,
if i’m honest, a promise

the chapters have
stacked, time seductive
in its blurring of old
bandages, i look across
the swimming pool and
ache with love for a
boy in golden light, ripples,
dance with joy
in wild clothing, look
you in the eye and tell you
my name, if i’m honest,
i want this, i want this.

there is god.

in my coffee, i’ll
tell you, i know there
is god, in the moan
of a lover, fingers dug
desperate against
my shaking back,
oh god, there you
are, stay right here

there is god in the
way we can feel the
temperature change,
the fall of our walls,
letting loose the idea
that we are hard
to love, god in
the way that i saw you
and saw it was good

god in the cigarette
passed between friends
on the long, hardest
nights, god in the
stories that follow our
scarring, and in
music, that song, that
melody rescuing the
room, my god, we
sing along from our bellies

and, god, i swear
you are there in the
stammered damn speeches,
the hardest i ams, the
rainbow of your own
creation, god in the
pressing of lips against
forehead, i am here,
body breaking for you.

crossing, coffee.

white shirt on the
cranberry rug, i am
moved by the way your
eyes hold steady
while you’re listening,
hand over your story
in glimpses, pages
and pages that
lead to a makeshift
picnic on my apartment floor

how do we choose
which fragments of the
road behind us to
show one another, how
do we write a life
over the course of
a single coffee

i don’t know where
your eyes go when
the words dry up, don’t
know a single thing
about the next pages
you or i will write, but
i will sing gratitudes
for the way threads
line up and show
us small pieces of
each other
in the crossing.

mom.

thirteen years old on
a summer afternoon, i grinned
at your suggestion, the
scenic route home, adventure
for mother and son,
passed a murky lake and your
eyes traveled backwards in
time, found the story of the
first boy who made you feel
beautiful, and the notion
cracked my mind open:

in my own mother, worlds i didn’t
know, an entire life before
i drew a single breath

what did you think i
would be on the first day
i wept in your palms, did
you imagine i would
soar and stumble the
way i have, were you
prepared for the times
my words would have
sharp edges, the days
my eyes would
become broken dams?

on the day i realized
the world was going to
screech to a halt, my
first thought was how
to get home to your reach,
thirty years old and running
to the first arms that
ever caught me

i am always carrying you,
into each beginning, into
the moments my hands
shake, into the nights i
am unsure i know
which way to walk, into
the conversations where
my voice is on the
verge of breaking

you are a thousand things
to me and one, all at
once, layered and simple,
too big to be held by words
and a single, clear feeling,
blossoming yellow in
the constant hope

in the time since.

I sat down to write tonight, and I’ve done more backspacing than building. When did I get so cautious about stacking words into worlds?

Part of me wonders if I’m still shaking off scar tissue from this goddamn pandemic, from watching the world grind to a halt, all the calendar days shaken loose, falling in defeat to the hardwood floor. Am I hesitant to write because I’m afraid everything will change mid-sentence?

I’ve been able to write in flashes. In an age of trusting only the present, my poetry has flourished. I’ve got poems on the melancholy view of a world through a window, poems on surprise glimpses of love, on the stories that surprised me on a hard damn year, on the moments a man felt unprecedented, on friendships like buoys in the swallowing vast. But to write paragraphs, to sit with the life I’ve been carving out and try to arrange it into something real and solid, has felt beyond reach.

I am still training my hands to be gentle in their carrying of this self. I am an impatient healer, a lifelong devotee to the idea that I can will my way through most anything, and I don’t know what to do with a voice box that chokes where it once knew to say something.

I’ve written this, some version of it, four or five times. They don’t need to know you don’t know what to say, some part of me grumbles, and yet this pours out every time I start wringing. Held hostage, once more, by the the most honest thing growing within me.

I read through old writing tonight. I think I hoped, in doing so, I’d remember my rhythms. Instead, I found myself stretching the stories out beneath the light, squinting in wonder at how time has changed everything and nothing.

A few weeks ago, I shared a conversation with an ex, somebody I hadn’t spoken with in years. We were clumsy in our cadences, tentative in the exchange. How does this go? Eventually, at least partly, we fell into step, exchanging jokes and updates. At some point, he asked me a question in earnest: Did I regret our time together? The answer, simple as an exhale, was no. Our story had its time and place, and we left both of those boys behind to become ourselves, two men messaging one another across geographies.

I study myself in the mirror and search for signs of aging. I am reminded of being a child, my younger sister and I wading out into the ocean and jumping along ocean waves. How certain we were we’d remained in the same spot, our feet lifting and falling onto the same sand, only to turn around and find we’d drifted fifty-one houses away from our family. So it is with time, and so I study my face and strain to see parts of me I am beginning to let go to make room for what’s next.

I am a different lover, thankfully, than I was at 22. And 25. And 29. My understanding of what love is, can be, the shapes it can take, has evolved right along with my story. In so many ways, I am still the same, my heart in love a wellspring of poetry and playlists and gestures big and small, but I have shed a few old habits. No more swallowing what I need or explaining away the hard parts of somebody I’m trying to love. I want to see him, want to show myself, in the honest light. I understand love, now, to be far more flexible than I’d imagined, stretching itself to grow and flourish in whatever container it finds.

We find our reflections a hundred different ways – in old photographs, in new lovers, in the stories we once lived – and we are reminded of time, brushing us tenderly onward underfoot.

Today, a friend and I reminisced about how, the very first time we met, we felt like friends from past lives rediscovering one another. I remember seeing him, introducing myself and driving him to a dinner with a few other people, and realizing, oh, we are going to be friends. Two and a half years later, drunk on the hardwood floor of my first New York apartment, we discovered we’d both felt it. We drank more, laughed like boys, kept telling each other, in different ways, how much we loved each other.

If anything has been a thread through this timeline, it is the love I didn’t plan for. People who wandered into my life, saw me, and decided to stay. There are people who have loved me through every era of my being, through bad haircuts and worse clothing choices, through heartbreaks and triumphs alike. I am bewildered, sometimes, by the fact that I am loved by people who have seen me on my ugliest day, found me in the deepest tangle of shame, stayed with me through the worst thing I’ve ever done.

I am still learning to love the hard parts of myself, still working to believe that I can be seen in the honest light and still so powerfully loved. Time has changed so much and so little. In this way, I hope the ocean around me devotes to its motions, gently guiding my feet, ushering me onward, onward, onward.

a time & place.

remember when
i pulled you into the hollow
of my fractured ribcage,
we practiced
breathing, what a
thing to
believe in forevers
without blinking

i scribbled the future,
paragraphs in permanent marker,
showed you and
saw you

time was a makeshift line
of polaroid stories, arranged
with tender hands across
the hardwood floor, before
the wind, human hurricane,
time coming loose like
fibers from the floorboards

to call more than one place home
is always to be aching for somewhere,
sitting in an airplane seat,
craving the earth and everyone on it,
ginger ale and crackers,
untethered and wanting

i am sorry for everything i have
missed and will miss, sorry for the
way my voice breaks, sorry i am so
often there when i am here,
i am here, even when i’m there

we once believed there was a
time and place –– for us, for
the aching and healing, the
births and deaths of our
highest hopes, regrets on
the shelf, out of reach, we
were believers, then, we

eddie.

talking quantum physics and
human stories on the hardwood floor,
i am struck by the brightness
of your eyes, intertwined
with gentleness, you
are a tangle of compassion
and critical thinking, brush strokes
against synapses illuminated, there
is music in the way the planets align

what are we, if not creators,
lovers and thinkers, carriers of
every story we’ve survived and
every story we hope survives us?

you are the outstretched hand, welcoming,
ushering everything forward, better,
forget the broken pavement behind us,
miles ahead there is more for us, if we
understand there is magic to believing
in magic, hope in holding reality
in these shaking, aching palms, you
are withness, bearing witness
to our wildest becoming

you are warm conversation into the
early hours, glass empty on the
table but inspiration overflowing,
a story unraveling and coming together
in the exact same exhale.

let it.

oh, wide-eyed lover,
someday you may just learn
to let a
smile across the dimly lit bar
be a grin, let the
song that played the first time
his lips met yours
be music, let the
things he whispers in blue early hours
be words

perhaps, tender poet,
you can rest
your pen, let the
folded up shirt he left behind
be a hoodie, let the
villains who left scars in their wake
be men, let a
wound, somatic, on your open sternum
be healed

or, bright-hued painter,
you may just keep on
embellishing, let the
lunch under overcast skies
be an adventure, let the
hand finding yours while sleeping
be a love song, let the
hard days that didn’t break you
be a story.