by Kate Phelps
Rather than assume you were born wrong,
I will ask you to take up the moment
when you first shared this earth with me.
I will ask you, please
push hard. Try hard. Gulp the air. Taste it. Taste and feel that it is mine, too.
It is mine, and yours, and ours to breathe together - if we must breathe together, and we must.
I will ask you, please to see that when you blow your
torrid, snake words down my neck
or reach to know what this woman feels like in your palm
I freeze, naked while fully clothed
in a darkness plumed by dizzy sparks.
You woke a monster brain and body bellowing
for you to drown.
For you to repent for what you took from me -
A trip to the grocery store on a soft winter afternoon.
Just before Christmas.
Before, without fear.
I will ask you, please
to understand that stealing is not fair.
Whether it be wrinkled paper, or plump flesh, or dignity you take.
If I wanted you in my bed, you would feel me usher you in
to make snow angels.
To rub, and jump, and fly until spring blooms up beneath us.
In your arms you could take me, if I reach for you.
You could play songs with my fingers, and we may soar.
I will tell you,
There is no more “please.”
Survival is a hardened metal voice.
My body is a gun.
I still believe, though, we can ask each other.
And so, I ask you,
on the sidewalk, be my friend. Be a kind shadow. Not a hand, or lips, or bones outstretched
for something that is not
yours.
