Making Lists

For the women of Nepal who have never met a man.


I have sold every instinct
for a chance to be closer
where your pulse beats
my shoulders like a crumpled fist.

I have shaved my beard
put chains on my wrists.
I have sold every instinct.
I have burned every list.

Now there are flowers drying
in my palm like dead spiders.
There are bones whirling
inside my skull writing
a new list.

Your pulse beats closer.
I can feel it above the rattling
of bones, of shackles
of Pashupatinath’s fires
my shaven face scratching
out lists on your body.

1. I am not a man.
2. You are not a woman.
3. God is not.

Each time I burn a list
I pull back the curtain.

Each time I pull the curtain
a new list is written.

The Wall

I am on the wall

dividing a night of rest

from the appearance of it all.

The wall begins to fall

in violent silence.

I watch it lean slowly.

Here is sleep.

I watch it gain speed.

Here is sleep like a curtain

in front of me.

I am Moses in the Red Sea

eyes wide on the inside

reaching a hand towards the veil

of water rushing in stillness.

I have rushed in stillness too.

I have been like water

churning without flowing

like sleep

vibrating without going.

Now I stand before

one thousand photocopies

of my face, each generation cloudier

and less pleased

as if perfection is to just be,

unchanging, exactly the same.

The devil is a good marksman.

I have been paralyzed by the fear

that all men are created equal.

I have seen too many people

unencumbered by the numbering

of failures

1.

Let every tear be flowing

for in that movement

I can feel the trembling

of continents.

2.

May my dreams be remembered

like the scent of moist earth

drying in a cemetery.

3.

Let me hold you close.

On the day I asked you to be mine

I tied you to a bench.

I return every day to find

my best friend in the clench

of a gilded cage

as if allowing us to change

might pinch me to awaken.

I am covering myself in sleep

like a thin, white sheet.

I have fallen asleep just to greet

your face with a kiss.

In sleep we are thirteen months old

born on the day we met

and I am comforted by my face

now an infant's

my voice gooey as I stroke

your face with the back of my hand.

Maybe in twenty years we'll marry

maybe we'll stop fussing about problems

we're too young to solve.

Maybe I'll just love you

just love you

just love you

until I awake

to just

love you

again.