Kim Jensen
DISCLOSURE
It was night, my friend, when I told you
I handed my life to a predator
in a cheap motel on Pulaski Highway
with broken glass crack pipes on the floor.
A raptor flew past the window
when you helped me into bed
like the invalid that I am.
You rested your head
on the bleeding table of my chest.
Isn’t it strange
the way love never finds a place to land?
The word hawthorn comes to mind
when I look at the sky.
But it’s the thorn part I remember.
He kissed me into the darkest corners of myself
that I could never quite regret
because it would be a mistake
to not believe the promises a body makes
even if it makes them on its knees.
But I didn’t have to tell you this.
Isn’t it strange? That I, sick in bed
was the one who taught you how to fly?
I told you: sunlight is better than trees.
I said: you have to want something.
First, head for the clusters of yellow.
They could be falling leaves
or maybe a rack of stars.