My current constellations
I contemplate the vast stellar smear of folks who light up my night sky, each a peculiar intensity, shimmer and hue. I connect the dots; picture frames of camels and kettles, scimitars and goddesses. These shapes are familiar fantasies. The brightest points have names of their own.
Ocean, a dark heavy stillness to his depths: we replenish each other. To know him is a ritual blessing.
Grotto, a sacred place of profanity, my own swamp chapel, warm baptisms of mud.
Underneath the velvet drapery is scaffolding and mechanics. Frank conversation. Scheduling. Shared meals. Hours spent dreaming side by side. Ocean and I want to live and make a home together. Grotto and I want to have children. If that happens, we’ll need to figure workable living arrangements so everyone (especially Ocean) has their own personal space.
We have other lovers and flirtations. Djuna dated Grotto, once, and now the two of us are… something. (Girlfriends?) She’s a lesson to me. I want to go camping with her. She’s good at pitching tents. We’re penpals. Slack at Skype dates.
Plinth: an unexpected lover, the dessert that made room for itself. He knows how to cook and knows how to fuck. His spit is a much-loved lubricant. We are grateful and hopeful and unexpectant.
Other intimacies – those I imitate, those I transgress and transcend with, people I play with and pray with, compasses and sundials, sparklers that are meant to burn out, shooting stars that blaze trails with the grace of miniature comets.
Ink, a girl who I’m fascinated by… Every last conversation is both sufficient, and foreplay to the next. Thus far, a quivering contradiction: naked minds and clothed bodies. I’m content to not touch, but then wonder – almost dispassionately – are we having sex by not having sex? Is tracing all around the edges akin to dipping a finger in? This bag contains a scroll on which is penned a faint map of a maze, look closer it’s the universe