As far back as I can remember, I dreamed myself
onto pages of sex, you know, things kids thumb through
when the cooler, more restrained adult
world suddenly starts wanting to hug you more,
and French kithing your neighbor underneath your parent’s
bedroom window after they have
gone to bed, feels so rich and heavy,
you can reach into the things you want with her fingers
and lift out of them an infinity of honey.
But these days I think the golden idea of immortality
faith prays about, semi-consciously refers to a permeable and
always expanding veil,
one side shared by the conscious,
the other by the unconscious,
a belief in life after puberty that’s being discovered all the time
inside myself, where any memory I unlock my hands on
can be stretched out and realized across.
Whatever puberty once had on me can now been locked up behind
the trophy case memory unlocks,
and in mine, I tell myself there’s no harm in showing off what
I’m most proud of a little, decorating a space inside me
where I can celebrate who I am, but was.
Because, at the very least, that’s got to be easier than trying to
remember the table manners off of imaginary women, who are partly
versions of me, through my skull.