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the O of lovers

i tried sign language, the language of the sexes
they call it, the mating call, the submissive dance
of the pelican to the penguin as their noses touch
and you see the light through the key hole
and know that there is hope, waiting in the balance
waiting it’s turn to be weighed, on that day
the day of scales, as they fall from your eyes
and the fog lifts as you hear the voice
take this one, cradle and care
lifting up as to grab the coconut, by the beard
and shake lightly, sprinkling with the tears of my soul
as to add life to the dieing seed
reversing the rotten fruit, as the gnat’s fly away
fearing the depth this could go, as it is so slow
knowing what the page says before reading it
the fear of man, what depths he will take
to keep from falling or tripping so the people think -
it’s a game of chance and decide not to play
stomping my foot declaring the end was not my intention
but to gain a friend in the end, is all i wanted
for the dream was real– the confirmation –true
if only i wrote it on the bathroom stall, in the mirror
the steams makes it visible to the reader, if he is looking
or listing to the sound of the stream as it puts you to sleep
waiting for that hero  - that i can’t be -  so it seems
that drear will be on my rear till the hands spin real
landing with a shrill, as you breath me in and keeping
or tucking away  under the rib, or wing– holding
in place to the race is won or over
what will be my sum?

conversing with : We Used to be Lovers

by Cory Garcia

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