Into You
Because ruin is another way to say
new beginning and stallions always appear
at sundown, I let day end without applause,
without feeling as if the downward spiral
has become my walk-in closet and I am searching
for my stilettos, the pair I wore in college.
Occasionally, ruin reminds me that life
sometimes writes in sloppy handwriting
though I prefer neatly typed. F*O*R
*G*I*V*E. There are birds I will never know
the name of and mistakes whose anatomy I will sketch
on my skin until I can’t remember, can’t forget
the moment in Mexico, I jumped and strangers
caught me, silver bangles sliding off my wrists
as they set me down. Five miles later, I found
the man selling silver fish bracelets and he held
my hand until sunset. Because ruin spells out
R-U in? I speak in tongues and walk
the other direction. That downward spiral
makes a nice bracelet. I accessorize disaster
and that man who stood a little too close?
He left at midnight, a satellite behind a cloud,
though he typed me a note in the sand—
Are you ready to forgive me? And the waves
washed over it. And the waves washed me away.
