Into me.
Intimate.
Gazes,
effortless,
precise
incisions,
excavate
my confessions.
Don’t tell
on me, how soft I am.
Heal me,
my teacher,
my Virgil, goddamn.
Been waiting,
troubled by maps
upside down.
Was never good
with directions, direction
rulers, rules,
orders, order.
“supposed tos”—
nebulous,
loose on the hips,
tight on the chest.
Your focus,
a spotlight,
I squirm but surrender,
transfixed,
seen.
In so quick,
then out.
You can’t just go,
truncate,
interrupt
mid-pull.
We were just beginning,
talking universe,
and gridlessness,
art and assholes,
and brand new ways . . .
Next time,
by the sea,
with hot drinks and no clocks.
—Bernadette Malavarca
BernCreativeWork 