It Will End in Praise

I left you a note behind,

a little wrap, which I hid away,

in the rafters of my kitchen,

black, worn, weak and warm.

I told you I drew milk from a rock,

honey from the webs of wasps;

I stitched my body together with water,

which I stole from the desert;

now, the desert is dry with no oasis.

I have become the oasis,

drink me to survive the thirst.

desire is dust with an eyesore;

but you can be the nemesis of want,

the slaughter of your longing;

you can be the forest without trees

when you are the tree;

stitch up the universe with your spittle

and it’s an ocean, a sea, a river, a pond,

anywhere with a pool of water

crystallising into the crisis of your heart.

The universe is a made-up

like a patchwork of clothes

with potholes, spaces between rivers,

between oceans and seas,

spaces unassailable to desire.

I left you a note for the emptying

to say I hate the rock in my room,

the mountain of stones in my kitchen,

the heaps of gravel in my bedroom,

the octopus and cactus in my eyes,

though I know that’s what gives meaning

and substance to my little life,

my connection with the universe,

after I become a mountain,

a hill and a road within the clouds.

I meant to tell you not to weep

when summer goes away in a whisper,

or when winter returns with a pistol

and shoots the sun on the foot.

You’re my summer, not a jungle

the sun will not go limping.

The sun will never stutter.

But if you stop your sun from shining,

your stomach must be full of stars.

Or, you chop off the world like cucumber,

dredge the bed of the sea with your tongue,

my song will end in praise.