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Christoper Noyes
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1
I muster up to say,
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"Salt shake, earthquake, which way?"
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like a blanket spun with the muscle in my mouth.
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With bellyaches you state,
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"My gate, no fate, I wont wait!"
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more like a cake set at the table
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in the spot for the green beans and mashed potatoes.
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The hammer and the gleam of fire hot-enough-to-smelt
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made us shutter terribly with every stroke that fell.
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The shouts we wove and wore as coats;
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up from our throats, came bitter notes:
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We held more close to our ideas then we did our friends,
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and those we said we loved
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only meant as much as the office or position held
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in relation to ourselves,
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a compass bearing survival.
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Now you're armor in the corner.
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This whole place makes me wonder.
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You can't help but defend against bows who lay long unbent.
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And that burden we now share, welded ardently;
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teared but ever tangled; tied though separately.
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Love, not me but a suit.
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Love, not me but a name.
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Love, not me but the wild we'd tame.
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Making doors out of branches,
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dressing up nice in the woods like we own the place.
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Love, not me, no it's a dream that puts your head back
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north searching for that star. To whom you wish,
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"Send a pair of eyes, single visioned, script reading.
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Come lay down mortar.
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Come breaking bread.
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There's oil for the lanterns,
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and hope for the dead.
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