By the sun, I know time has swept
new flesh across forgotten wounds,
but a poet is unpracticed in the art
of forgetting, all the stories somatic,
memory staining its way through
the armor, gossamer, painting
the bones crimson, indigo, so
I turn down my headphones,
think of the things I didn’t
have the nerve to say
when I was surviving you,
the loneliest boy with the
sharpest bite, I hope that
the God you run from is
kinder than the one who
taught you to love, and
Still I hope
you will find your way,
free from the shrieking
silence of your own company, I
walk through a new city and watch
black and indigo press like ink into
the orange sky, glance at the
moon and marvel, we all share
the same one, only this, and
I forgive you, and I remember
the magenta rush of letting
myself want you, but also the
black eye you gave me –
you didn’t know how else
to leave.
michael king 