My mother used to say that poets & doctors both have the propensity to cut things. That is to say, unwanted feelings; malignant tumors; dying emotions; hernias; beautiful imageries; & collapsed lungs. Today, I took my heart to surgery. I cut & cut, bovieing through trauma until all I have left are memories of childhood & innocence. All things are bright & beautiful until you introduce love. Last night I dreamed that dream again. In it, you did not come bearing false gifts; you did not wear bald head; your lungs rejected cancer; & your body did not grow pale. Breathing was an art & you excelled at it. You walked into a room & your presence spelled me into awe. I wore courage like titanium spine, to ask you out; to ask you to be mine. That is to say, I have always loved you before I loved cats; before I loved nights; before I loved me. That is to say you complete me in ways I cannot imagine: tell me, who has the audacity to fill a chest with holes like bullets if not God? Why did he paint you with coats of deathly ruins? This is me trying to say that I am tired of watching everything I love fizzle into oblivion. Can I claim to be a son of light if all I shoot darts into darkness? This is a new year & I want to excise loss & grief. I am flailing & my body is tired. Here is where I weave myself into words; that one day I may get to scalpel myself before God & he won’t seize my oxygen.
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