Used to be you believed in things.
Used to be I felt the same
about you, until we found what believing brings
the night when Gabriel came.
I know, you don’t care to recall
and when you do, you don’t tell it right.
It doesn’t hurt much. The scar’s so small
it’s impossible to see in this dim a light.
We’d stayed up late like we’d done it at first
when we’d made love all the way through
as long as we could hang on, unrehearsed
and no idea where to carry it to.
Except this time we knew it couldn’t last
enough to give us heat to keep
us going at it. We never had us much a past
to build on, did we? No dream worth its sleep.
“Go run get us another whiskey,” I said,
“from that all-night store down the street.”
When you went, two took to your place in bed,
downstairs five more I was wanting to meet.
Why does wind sound so hard as it does
like ghosts beating fists on cold earth?
Knowing what will come from what once was,
I’d still choose death over birth.
One lover’s kisses fell on my thighs
as my other’s took to my breast.
My orgasm’s vision blinded my eyes
and I heard a voice say, “You are blessed.”
“That whiskey he’s back with too soon,” I thought
wishing you might never return.
I love all men freely, as well I ought.
Why the hell do you ever not learn?
“You’re blessed,” the voice quietly repeated,
“You are chosen. You’re the one.”
I opened my eyes to check, to find seated
at the foot of the bed: your only son.
How was I to accept what I heard?
I need be nothing more than this
while that other thing, it’s but a word
less glancing to my ass than a kiss.
My two lovers departed. I lay naked, spread out
for my new guest. All I had was his.
I know not what his message was meant about —
that which can’t be can’t come of what is.
What proverbially do we to messengers? Kill
them. So too do we kill off the dream.
Reality comes not from what we will
or will not quit, such as by chance might seem.
I rose from our bed to step out to the stair,
called down send me up three of my five.
Your messenger was giving me only cold air
while at least all my lovers are live.
The last I know you were walking south —
out of sight, as is said, out of my mind,
while one of my lovers I had in my mouth,
one beneath me, the third at me behind.
The night Gabriel came will soon go to fade.
I don’t think of it much these days
nor of what he said. You left. I stayed.
Who cares what word anyone says?