When it’s not raining . . . read Young? From Issue 5 of A Public Space — “I Don’t Burn” by Kevin Young:
Dear Darkness — consider this
my last attempt
to reach you. My previous
few missives
having boomeranged back
unread, postmarks blurred
I would like very much to go
snorkeling with you –
Our pale, East Coast bodies floating like foam
in a cobalt salty sea
Where, fluttering alongside schools of flatfish,
darling you and I would speak
A new language
of air bubbles and gestures, pirouettes and
pipe-delayed gasps
as electric eels writhe below.
I’ve briefly mentioned this before, but I’ll say it again: I think if there’s one, immediately irksome subject for a poem to tackle, it’s writing poetry — describing the writing process, the agony of writer’s block, the expectation from an imaginary audience. Such poems are inaccessible to people who have no interest in writing poetry. [...]
In my dreams you say that loneliness
has caused your teeth to diminish over time, to become thin and
bent
You pry open your lips with both hands and
I place my head in your mouth to investigate.
Your pink softness like chewing gum.
Your bones, weightless and crumbling.
If someone were to walk in the room at that moment
(Which they do, [...]
I.
Here is how it is with you:
Every day I wonder what is missing.
Cracks in the sidewalk. I avoid them, wouldn’t
want to break her back,
smaller things, still
I would not say to you.
You are lovely and white-teethed
and whenever I am around you I feel slovenly,
misplaced
like a garage sale item in a department store.
Sometimes you call, although we [...]