/ First Place, 2023 Plentitudes Prize in Poetry /
I do not wish to be saved from solitude. Bless me with it,
a kiss planted midnight blue on the loyal curve of my forehead
from whichever mother I come—the moon? shadow? death
itself?—it’s not for me to say. I was told that in the end, we all
die alone. Half-truth. I want to say: In the while, we all live
alone, too. Another half-truth, but one that I keep puckered in
my mouth along the soft lining of my cheek so that it may always
stay warm. Tell me, what’s there behind your teeth? Open, so
slowly, and I will open too. I want to say: Love me. I want to say:
If you love me, sail with me at midnight under this old, old moon
and think only of the stillness of the water. I want to say:
Hush. Be still. I say: I love you, but I mean: I witness the glory of
your solitude. In the end, what can we really give another?
I say that I love you, but—bless me—what I mean is
you sit at this table beside me, and I am underneath the moon,
experiencing myself.