I
Love poems are the hardest
to write.
Our desire for connection grows
as our bodies let go.
Every night
I’m huddled over poems.
Every morning I’m writing poems,
but my heart beats for you.
II
Blood promise never
broken. Love promise always kept.
Baby, fill me with your scent.
Lay me down beside green pastures.
At the bed and breakfast, we laughed as you filled the tub with too much bubble
bath. A mountain arose.
A valley fell.
I bowed under.
I licked the bird out of a thicket.
I closed over her, and
I went beneath the earth and emerged back in bed with you.
III
I’m alone
again in my poem.
Follow my voice.
Wait, I just heard you sing
the blues: “Each night alone
is a cold stone bed.”
I’m here.
You can cry.
I didn’t know I was speaking
to myself.
I’m crying.
Your voice just said, “I fear love.”
You take care of me.
You remind me I feel
I feel
I feel.
I only see a single
you.
I only have one good eye.
The doctor tells
me I can make
it stronger with therapeutic
eye-training.
I want to see double the amount of you.
Blessed are the peacemakers
for they shall be called
children of God.
People want proof. They say show
me the evidence
of peace.
You are my peace.
There’s always a tranquil calm before the cue lights
come on and all of the audience sits and awaits
your entrance.
Before the curtain
rises, I alone begin to
applaud.
I am still applause.
The intro music begins.
Some sit dumbfounded.
Some wrinkle playbills.
Others talk
and talk
and
talk.
Everybody is always flapping
their gums.
I’m glad they are focused on you, not me.
Here we go!
The music begins!
V
I’ll sing awkwardly into you, dandelion.
May I go beautifully between your seedlings.
Your heart wilts, and each
petal falls over me.
Each tear wets my face.
I love you. Rest your head on my chest.
VI
These metaphors must
be broken
down mathematically.
I + you = we.
You = me.
We + man = wo man
Woman
Wife
Love
Always back to love.
VII
I’m paranoid again.
Every
single day’s
dream ends with David Bowie.
Changes Changes Changes.
My yoke
has broken.
I’m sizzling in nervous
tears.
My energy
cooks me.
Please slide me into Heaven.
I’ve had enough.
I fall onto
the plate
I fall on top
of you.
Your angelic hue calms me.
VIII
I’m drunk and drowning.
I’m sinking in my poetry.
I’m no longer afraid of The Devil.
I long for none
but you,
my dandelion
breath forever.
Taraxacum,
tear the bottle from my hand. I’ve become drunk again.
My dreams enter
reality. They replace
reality. Like Van Gogh, I see
only my dreams. The booze enhances these.
The booze.
The booze.
Where do I begin again?
I awoke with one foot
touching your cold thigh. Fetal
curled around nothing. And just my
toe’s tip holding fast to you.
You are a corolla.
Your flowering seedhead.
Your white moon.
Your stem so strong.
Your song is forever in me.
Here it begins—
topsy-turvy
drunken madness
again clings me
with sweat
to the orchestra
seat. I’m
heavy under
you. I‘m
looking up
and your mane
cries over
me. Your
tears of joy
mingle with the strings.
The overture.
The overture.
This is over.
Where do I begin again?
T.S. Eliot said
here is where we begin.
He said here is where
we end. He said nothing
coherently about the womb of life.
My feminine heart flutters
between your hair strands.
Each tendril is beautiful.
Each tear tears me apart.
I’m all heart.
IX
I’m broken.
My promise is not.
My ring is on.
My Oh My.
My girlfriend.
We are at Oral Roberts University.
I’m reading Ginsberg’s
gay sex mantras.
I’m dreaming nightmares
of heaven in bodily love.
I smell your t-shirt.
You left your blue gym
shirt on the back
of my study desk chair.
I smell you.
I don’t touch you.
Scent memory frees my lungs.
Your Saucony sneakers are not in style.
Your pencil skirts are not in la mode.
Your ice cream flavor is in my heart.
I’ve asked Jesus here
too many times and felt
he left because I couldn’t feel him.
You’ve never left.
I’m waiting on you.
Now, we escalate the marital steps in Eureka Springs
We we we are finally a we, an us.
I love you.
You say, “I do.”
I quit drinking my whispers.
I started singing my songs.
I quit drinking my whispers.
I started singing my songs.
On the roof tonight, I saw you look
at the fire in the sky. Your works are beautiful.
Now, the audience stands. Now, the Encore begins.
—About the Author—
Kyle Erickson was born in Grove, Oklahoma, and lives in Astoria, NY. His poems have been published in This Land Press, Poetry Crush, Promethia, Aromatica Poetica and translated by Ernesto Espinoza for Cìrculo de Poesìa. Find more of his writings at www.okieinthecity.com.
Read Kyle’s poem, “Geology and Genealogy,” another kind of love poem.