Vulnerable

I remember us in that moment

through the blurring of our after-heat—

you, twirling strands of golden hair

fanning out across your breast

and me, in the waves against the ceiling,
of a vague and incipient hope.

Turning into me,

you said that you're afraid of water

when you can’t see bottom—of the hidden things

lurking underneath. How you always let
the others jump in first,
to scare away the dark things.

When you asked me about my fears,  

I thought about your story when

sitting behind a barn, you saw your dog

step suddenly around the corner, half its face

hanging from a bloody strand—the work

of an alcoholic father.  

Turning into you, I taught you 

how to say “your eyes are beautiful”,

in Mandarin, suddenly beholden to

the way your body rippled with my touch

like the surface of a shimmering pond

in a long forgotten memory.

How beautiful that pond was,

but how young I felt playing at its edge

dipping a finger in its warmth,

unaware of the currents underneath

and the incomprehensible things

with names I’d never known.

What to tell you about feeling old

about days that turn to years,

about the fear of dissolution,
about the bird of anxiety, perching on the soul

about the bitterness that rises in a man

like gin in a dusty bar glass.

That night we walked the path

from memory to desire, joining at the place

where two horizons meet,

warm in the light

of what we didn’t understand

but wanted to discover.