1.

A martyr’s skin
red lashes of white
sin
my greatest
my eyes missing
small, fat thumbs
grasping
like bumblebees
for all that we now wish
we never grasped.

I might stop you
if I was there to
I might stop you
if I can stop myself
I might stop you still.

2.

Meet me in Paris
in a pool-hall in Montparnasse,
or look for me guiding
gondolas silver down the Seine,
French firecrackers firing
at my feet; by then I’m sure to have
some uncertain future in my holy pocket,
some apologies for the passing on of
seedling nightmares; some forgiveness, some understanding
stuffed in my sleeves, like a dash of spice hidden
in a mother’s recipe; and that
picture in my pocket, bent and folded
time and time and time again no time,
that picture I come back to without fail
when Paris is no longer a possibility,
when the only possibility remaining
is memory,
I look to you
how you seemed so infantile
in platinum-green eyes,
how you looked like familiar flesh
and blood
secure in the crib
of our first birthday.

Meet me in Paris, my love—

all these I hope to have
for you, you
only make certain
to keep still your age.