Here is what I want to know

That the very stars
above us were born
from my own body.
Spinning globes
and fire balls simply
living in the palms
of my hands,
after thousands of
labored hours,
cradled while I sing
them into a spiraled sleep.

That the kiss in the booth
at the bar during the
thunderstorm on mother’s day
when the power went out
is the only element
putting air in our lungs.
A reminder of what
breathing should feel like.
A gasping, a request
for another witness
of life — to yell at the world
that we existed
right here under the
lightening, once.

That the rusted feathers under
our arms can molt
and fall away, but always
take flight when a
familiar other calls from
across the pale foreign sky.
We meet the sounds
like a portal sucking
us back to the energy
we knew from other lives.
You can come.
They said you’re invited.

That the new realities
created in every moment
of land locked eyes — ones
birthing artists and lovers
and poets — born blue
from nothing but a single stare
that you will never forget.
The one from across
a busy street, a room of
a thousand people,
the most silent, empty
galactic highway where
our most true selves live.

I created it and destroyed it all.
And I will again and again and again.

And you will be there too.