Tag Archives: kylie graves

How can I poem you?

 

The entire universe knows itself

through the curl of your toes,

the effortless swing of your dance-flung arm,

carrying kismet on the soles of your feet

and in the bold laugh

quaking your smooth belly.

 

I’m inspired by how body does not restrain you

but allows,

the enthralled discovery of your container temporary –

your bones

echoing against your flesh,

your spirit extending graceful

beyond your permeable borders

and how it shivers against mine.

 

As well I know

every particle is formed from love

your coalescence of being

remembers this simple truth;

it pours from you

and rushes beautiful

beyond language,

uncapturable,

but palpable, transferrable.

 

So, like dance

telling stories through moment

I’ll write around you

hoping to conjure some secondhand sheen

in the wide of your bright eyes

and the true of your smile

on paper,

 

as futile as calling a glass of water the ocean,

as important

as drinking it anyway.

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Recognition

I’ve been afraid of truth-telling

when the stakes are high.

 

Loss was my parent

wearing my father’s disintegrated face

once I outgrew my childskin,

 

then it morphed

into lovers who never opened

the soul I wrapped up like a birthday present

and handed over whole.

 

Still I would not be jaded.

I knew, in the way that I cannot disprove

and refuse to negate

the existence of magic,

that love was the only thing

worth belief,

no matter how many times

it miraged through my hope-shaken hands.

 

So I hold you,

not clutching

as though I have a fairy in a jar,

but with a tendering awe,

nervously reaching out my fingertip

just to know it’s real enough to touch.

 

The words sit under my tongue

even as it tastes you,

never thoroughly enough;

each stolen/gifted hour savored

until the flavor is sucked dry,

 

but I haven’t taken time enough

to memorize the pattern and color of your eyes

still fearing that if I were to address

your wild heart

it would spook like a whitetail

taught that all 2-legs have guns.

 

On the way to a wedding

my mother told me to be brave,

that it was important,

to be naked

 

even when culture says

to reveal invites abuse,

though I never listened

until love

gave me

one too many times

without consent.

 

I’ve never felt taken from,

only that at times I gave too freely

to the same cruel lover,

who arrives each time with a new face,

greedier and hungrier.

 

I don’t think you’re a bully’s joke.

I don’t think you’re here to teach me another hard lesson.

I don’t think I’ve learned the last,

maneuvered through the final rough patch, but

I do think

you are worthy of pause,

the glimmer in the forest

I know is real

beyond all want of proof.

 

I have been afraid of love

like I am afraid to go out into the wilderness alone,

knowing exactly what lives there unseen,

the hairs on my neck noticing,

instinct overriding rationale.

 

I know now that it’s best to wait

until the scent of adrenaline

has dissipated from my hair,

to stand soft in the clearing

and make no sudden movement

as I watch you from this closeness.

 

I know exactly what you are

and what it might mean to call out your name

into the tingling space,

 

clutching my breath,

pierced sudden

by recognition.

 


For Jay

 

While driving this morning

I caught up to the sun

throwing its hot

on the frosted fields

full of browning goldenrod,

 

and the finest steam rose up

breathing out of the gnarled creek

in swirling gasps,

held so tenderly and through

by the light’s soft yellow

that I wanted to reach out and take your hand,

 

even from this impossible distance.

How could anyone not see

that every particle

is pure love. 


September

I have spent myself –

my passion,

is drought;

I drank it all summer,

unquenchable,

uncontrollably.

 

Blow something

into my parching soul,

enough to stoke

fall’s frag’ling fire

til buried deep in winter I. 

 

One year away

and I forget snow’s capacity

for purification.

One year gone;

I will

a blooming

from this threat’ning frost

wind blew so cold today

it reminds me

that here:

September isn’t summer

as you are not

and they are not

my lovers

anymore.

 

I bought closed-toe shoes

in resignation. 


four-in-the-morning

four-in-the-morning

more!
you said

and so I gave it to you:

words
fearlessly sumptuous, irreverent, naked,

you:

closing your eyes to savor,
opening them to watch them fall from my mouth
for you,

and after each
a pause

more!

drinking them down like shots
going straight to your head.

we couldn’t see the moon from the car
so ventured out
into the late night dim
of the lush graveyard

and we still couldn’t find her,
but you found my mouth,
and I found the sweet smoothness
of the skin beneath your shirt

and we found four-in-the-morningchiming from the heart of town
far below us
as you laid inside me
shivering in the dew-ing grass
alive! alive!
in the old cemetery

heralding the deep cornflower blue of morning
as the hushed stars retreated
back behind the layers
of approaching dawn.

you said then,
out loud,
that you were meant to find me
but I didn’t say another word —

didn’t have to

the birds sang:
                       good morning!
                       good morning!
                       good morning to you!


I must apologize that I have not been updating recently with new poetry, but I have a good excuse (for once)! I’ve been doing some preliminary work, writings, recordings and brainstorming around a book I will be producing about empowered sexuality. It’s going to be very personal, deep and time intensive work for me and I’m very excited to someday share my creation with the world, but it has left a bit less time in my mind of late to focus on poetry, though don’t fear, more work will be forthcoming!

In the meantime, here’s a little meditation poem for you to savor:

Let me become the bee in the lotus
resting in that lush palace
while,
far off,

the hive sizzles,

a frog
barks low.