I’m the one who’s been asking you—
it hurts to ask—Who are you?
I am orphaned
each time the sun goes down.
I can feel cast out from everything
and even churches can look like prisons.
That’s when I want you—
you knower of my emptiness,
you unspeaking partner to my sorrow—
Now you surely are dead. I’ve searched
the databases: you everywhere
elude us. Long ago without your
reaching to tell me, surely
the plague killed you. Each thing in your life
you found so
incommensurate to the spirit
I imagine that becoming
untraceable makes you smile.
You’ve been many things, all the same.
I’ve grown to think of you as someone
who keeps calling me back, just
as I’m about to leave. Tonight, you are infant
easy to love. I hum you a tired bit of Brahms
until you’re almost asleep, then place you
next to my breast. This is the dream
swimmer’s deep, that unbridled edge
of anarchy, where everything’s a pale
blue-green and the air itself is drinkable.
It’s safe to speak here.
To call love by a name other than vengeance.