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here i have beatrices/vertices. beatrice first and foremost, who led dante through paradiso, infinite beauty, unspeakably courteous, resolver of doubt, comforter of poets, queen of all that is good. the seraphic light that emerges from john coltrane's bell. the slipping sound of nylon gym shorts between my legs. |
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i want my boo to be someone like this. i wanna be able to protect someone who can also have me be vulnerable in front of em, someone who fucks back regardless of who's in who. the way sixo's thirty-mile woman put him back together, so that he understood himself even as he was burned alive. |
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| the third is beatrice, mother of my father. she is the swede that adds that 25% to my constituencies, the ethnicity that is most foreign in me. she told me, as a boy, that the church she went to had her name written in stars on it, and so i would try to read it every night as we went home to her house full of maine smells and blankets and a small set of teeth, sedately at the sink. i would lie in bed as a budding teenager and pray that she was not watching me from heaven as i beat off under my blanket. |
a second, improbable beatrix wrote peter rabbit, other children's stories, grew up wealthy enough to spend her childhood with parents only during special occasions. inwardcy focused her imagination, her coded language. you should be sleeping alone. tell me what you're dreaming of ... don't forget what i wrote you then; don't forget that i meant to win. how would i guard someone's innocence? |
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i dream in my heart for the one who will push me to heaven and cantos. |
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