Where Love Becomes Our End Times and We Choose That Dance Anyway (Quail Bell Magazine)
for Pulse We aren’t supposed to use love in a poem, piled in every corner. the pink sheep, in every corner
It is stacked with beating hearts all pump and spit and fire. Stack the love, open the door and imagine, imagine the strobe lights and staccato. Imagine the break of lightning and difference. All of the desire that leaves and waits like the thinning of understanding. We break silence and the glass splatters. The rivers and lakes overflow. Swell, with those hearts still beating at the bottoms. Beating and pulsing and boiling over with love… love, love, love that, that thing that cannot break, love, that thing that cannot be wrong. Don’t send me your words riddled with that word love… Don’t tell me that all of this has all been done because of love… Sticky and wet, with death, the lessons we reap and the waters where we go to drown… for love… We hear the rip and think it’s music… We feel the cut and move bodies faster… We think the heat is eternal and the water deeper than Heaven, but it’s love we’re dancing for.