you descend on me like age 

 

you descend on me like earth 

thinking of a very special young woman tonight

You step delicately 

into the wild world 

and your real prize will be 

the frantic search. 

Want everything. If you break 

break going out not in. 

How you live your life I don't care 

but I'll sell my arms for you, 

hold your secrets forever

and Ondaatje's helping me express how I feel towards her. Thanks O., thanks little sister, for being in my life. xoxo 

the un-owned

yes at first you
go down smooth as
pills, all of me
breathes you in and then it's

a kick in the head, orange
and brutal, sharp jewels
hit and my hair splinters

the adjectives
fall away from me, no
threads left holding
me, I flake apart
layer by
layer down
quietly to the bone, my skill
unfolds to an astounded flower

regrowing the body, learning
speech again takes
days and longer
each time/ too much of
this is fatal

(Margaret Atwood)

My body on this hard bed.

I want to die on your chest but not yet,
she wrote, sometime in the 13th century
of our love

before the yellow age of paper

before her story became a song,

lost in imprecise reproductions

until caught in jade,

whose spectum could hold the black greens

the chalk-blue of her eyes in daylight.

***

Our altering love, our moonless faith.

Last ink in the pen.

My body on this hard bed.

The moment in the heart
where I roam restless, searching

for the thin border of the fence to break through or leap.

Leaping and bowing.

(from "Last Ink in the Pen", by Mr. Micheal Ondaatje)