“I’m a poet from Ogallala, Nebraska. This is my fourth year at camp.”
I should write a poem.
Some warm thing, some
deep thing, some firm thing.
Something that exists only
in your ribcage,
something that has no place in any body
but yours, a poem that folds
itself to make room
for your bones,
that does not stretch the space between
but instead only is,
is only to be,
solid and safe,
existing just for one moment,
deep and lovely,
as your knee touches mine.
Let desperate poetry through your skin
Let love exist on cheekbones and overflowing bookshelves
Let belly laughs and yellow into rooms
Let feelings of largeness and wantings of daintiness coexist.
Please lust after empty skies
Please collect accents like passport stamps
Please love roads and planes like still places
Please come home for the 4th of July
“How Pigeons Taunt”
This was God’s greatest joke: letting the pigeons own the sky.
because what kid hasn’t wanted to be an astronomer? Wanted
to feel the planets with their fingertips, trace the stars
with their teeth, we have all wanted to sit on clouds without
falling to our deaths and pigeons never seem to fall to their deaths,
they only shit on us,
the sky caressing the tips of their wings like a prayer, no,
like something too jubilant to be holy, the sky
dances praise songs to carry pigeons
along and pigeons, well-
they know exactly what we’re missing.