Michael Neal Morris
Put your breath on my back
and forget the dark, my fat stomach,
the words I forgot
and kiss my shoulder. Say
nothing into my working ear.
I already know your fears
and my failure to allay them.
Touch me first, there.
Forget the falls we can’t rise from
and the losses of hair and memory
and the memories we can’t neglect.
I don’t want to make, but be, love.
I don’t want to be in as much as
make from this love,
not a child, except the one I am,
present, like a gift making me
generous. And light. I’m so
damn ready to be light.