The Last Man I Loved Was a Woman
Green Hills You asked if the last man I loved was a woman. She was a brush of lipstick where the red sun fell into our laps, an aircraft I shot into history. Everything felt warm like waiting, alight with cobwebs, unseen and alive in their absence. In the countryside, absence filled entire houses, cut families out of construction paper, stick figures went missing on the way to a plate of dinner. Our house swam up like a goldfish, asking. Now, my mother asked if my father loved men. Did he love them more than this, was that it. He must have loved a question mark so much it was no longer allowed by the heart. Whatever I am allowed makes a memory. You visit the green hills. They are new every year like an annual sale, half-off and free. Here is everything untouched, please touch and break and bring the stranger of your body back home. You long to look at distance, sometimes beyond. Sometimes the car fades away. But the road remains. You know there are other homes in the wideness of the low world.
The Unbelievable O beautiful for unbelievable bodies how they swam beside each other on the beds of America. In snatches of incandescence, could you sense that this was not a single longing but lifetimes of caterpillars, how families of goldfish came alive in our fast motions. How far we both have traveled to unite here in dappled heat, slowed at the foot of the bed where our sweaters lay piled a touch of rainwater seeping in, all the coolness that seems now worth reaching for the pipe drip under which we met, over what seemed to be hours and years at once. Today was stolen and rented among clangs of radiators, orchestral squares of urban light revealing flowered and fruited gestures of impassioned trespasses, two citizens, being held by only one another’s borders. In the water of our languages how this country grew suddenly unfurled and conceivable, and the morning glories became ours in our arms.