I am learning
how to lose you
while I feed you
eggs for breakfast
and this is how you know,
as soon as the world sits still
a settling snow globe
in the shivering hand of some God
I am aware of my need
for you, the way blue, purple blood
sifts through, a waking fire. Passion can not
be nicknamed, this way: like careless grammar,
can not be healed like some open wound.
It is a whispering fever,
how a woman prepares
a man to be loved
and listened to,
like this—
there is a butterfly whose tiny toes
hang onto the cloud
hovering over the crowd of river
in my belly, weary with the worry
of listening to you, screaming
for the sake of an echo, a familiar voice
after the water fall,
hoping for a parachute
when you realize
there is no such thing as wings,
just creatures who were made for the sky
each day I am learning,
after I have washed your clothes and folded your armor
as I kiss you furiously—
how to let you go
when you ask me, to trust you
unbuckled in your arms, supporting you
each eye lash I have reserved
when you dont know
you need, my laughter
like I don’t need you
how to leave you,
when I want to take up the earth in my arms
and clench the heavens with my tongue
-from The Black Unicorn Sings by Aja Monet. 2010.