this kind of love, i learned from my mother by Fray Narte

i disembody you in poetry:

thin scabs film over your bones,

i pick them until i find new skin to lay my kisses on —

a new land to baptize

with my own heathen hands,

i disembody you with them:

chest spread open like that of a dressed foul.

my body is too corrupted but it knows of intense longing,

piercing live-coal eyes, it burns

my neck like a crucifix,

like flames on a burning metal —

it heals, almost cleanses like holy fire

and with new bones,

i disembody you in poetry:

an attempt to see you, hold you, love you whole

without it consuming me:

a sight of pink lips, pink tongue,

pink columbines on your wrist;

i take apart your entirety,

press it, piece by piece on my fragile nail bed — hidden away

somewhere the world loses its sight.

and maybe now after all the cycles,

it is the world's turn

to fumble far and wide,

to despair in search for your hands —

your eyes

that unsettle and leave the cosmos

collapsing majestically

in its own harshest daylight.

finally, you are mine to love and i am yours to forgive —

for my compulsions to love you like this.