“My mouth is a fire escape.The words coming outdon’t care that they are naked.There is something burning in there.”

“That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.”

“Rocking ChairSad is. Scared is. That is all. The rocking chair I live in rocks like a paper boat. Sometimes I am all words, and no boot. No muster. No yes. All lag and tired pray, all miss my hometown. Miss the woods and the quiet porch and the talking slow. I caught the snow on my tongue. Snow angel, I. My heart a blue lamp. My mother calling me home. We cannot be called home enough times in our lives. Dear lonely, what is your name? I will open my front door and ring it through the streets.”

“Loveisn't always magic.But if I offered my body to the magician,if I told him to cut me in halfso after that I could come to you wholeand ask for you backwould you listenfor this dark alley love song?For the winter we heated our home from the steam off our own bodies?”

“The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables.Said if I could get down thirteen turnips a dayI would be grounded, rooted.Said my head would not keep flying awayto where the darkness lives. The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight.Said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do.I handed her the twenty. She said, “Stop worrying, darling.You will find a good man soon.” The first psycho therapist told me to spendthree hours each day sitting in a dark closetwith my eyes closed and ears plugged.I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinkingabout how gay it was to be sitting in the closet. The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth.Said to focus on the out breath. Said everyone finds happinesswhen they care more about what they givethan what they get. The pharmacist said, “Lexapro, Lamicatl, Lithium, Xanax.” The doctor said an anti-psychotic might help meforget what the trauma said. The trauma said, “Don’t write these poems.Nobody wants to hear you cryabout the grief inside your bones.” But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi jumpedfrom the George Washington Bridgeinto the Hudson River convincedhe was entirely alone.” My bones said, “Write the poems.”

“Cause I don't wanna be a witness to this life,I want to be charged and convicted,ear lifted to her song like a bouquet of yesbecause my heart is a parachute that has never opened in timeand I wanna fuck up that pattern,leave a hole where the cold comes in and fill it every day with her sun,'cause anyone who has ever sat in lotus for more than a few secondsknows it takes a hell of a lot more muscle to stay than to go”

“I know this world is far from perfect.I am not the type to mistake a streetlight for the moon.I know our wounds are deep as the Atlantic.But every ocean has a shorelineand every shoreline has a tidethat is constantly returningto wake the songbirds in our hands,to wake the music in our bones,to place one fearless kiss on the mouth of that new born riverthat has to run through the center of our heartsto find its way home.”