and counting

These grey rays of sun in winter

Sing still-born days to stoops of clutching

Hands and loose rolled bitters. They

Bring with them haunting futures and backs

Hunched against them as if against The Wall.

The future is not a wall. Perhaps it is more like a moon.

We collapse in warm bubbles,

Bathing each other slowly and with great care

As pores open again in safety, and we remind each other,

Like 1999, we are still here. We are still here,

We are whispering with every kiss and cheers

And gyration. We are still here. That is something.

I refuse to say the coming days will bring strange fruit.
it is too dark. And it is too light here.

We are, with eyes open against the cold,

Whipping down chestnut to approach the city like an invading force.

I want to whoop and cry with you, I want to shake my arm up high,

Sword glinting in the sun. We are brandishing courage

In an empty amphitheater. We are mumbling oaths beneath our breath.

We are cleaning our houses and preparing for meetings.

We are still here and we are continuing on.

Our lives are bulwarks against them. But

They must be more. My bed has several blankets,

And when I wake the first things I see are my grandmother’s trinkets

Arrayed across the desk. We are reading poetry together—

It is preparation. And something more.

We are trading massages, we are throwing each other birthday parties.

I am leaving the grey of the fences open. I am refusing

To cut the grass. I am making plans for weddings.

I am strong enough for this.  Fire, security,

Eyes watching. They will continue to take our bread.

They will continue to hunt us to the corners.
We are strong enough for this.

We are still here. the new moon is coming.