Poetry / June 2015 (Issue 28)

We Are Little Things

by B.B.P. Hosmillo

[The film called TRANS continues with an old man, his age unknown since he started asking God or a piece of crack device or a skull his lover left Do you see me here?]


What moves from the dark is seen, but might not really be there. The chair, the air sitting on it, the teeth of murmurs—this is one way to see an exiled world. I ask myself if what moves will continue moving by way of relaying one message of pity goodbye to you o beautiful thing. Am I leaving? Not today. Not until my lover is seen. Forever it's my accuracy: a thing is beauty, is real because it can't be here.


There are these things: legs on the bathtub, ruler straight and glistening like needles or unsuccessful arrows. And there are these things that still search: fingers making a bundle of yarn, a puppet's hair out of iridescent bubbles—I swear I can't stop imagining your head thawing in my hands. But there are things that can only hold so much: red teeth, too close or too outlying from its blue mouth, biting the faucet hole. I'd be finished if I could drink you. You're always the finisher. I'm always undone.


On one side after a eulogy of bad years, the pornographic tape in which two men are locked separately with vultures—they keep locating each other, they are beautiful. Didn't we expect a lot from sex? Still shadows, still voices reminding how good it is to listen and not to listen at all, still bodies after the flesh-eating. Didn't we fabricate ourselves and tell each other we are real? Had I asked do you love me not in a way the question slides on one side of my mouth like convulsion bubbles, would you have said yes? Didn't we want more than that? The sprinting bubbles and the farmland plowing scenes and the harvest time when contused grapes fend their way out of my mouth because you didn't have to be told I could taste like undrugged wine. If a history, you were born drunk and made me a room just so danger intended to enclose me. Just so you will not go, you said. But didn't you think what does not go is a thing only a prison can make? And here, for the very first time, you're asking are you still alive? If a proof, touch my body—I don't know if its energy means life.


This is what moves from the dark. This is very far. It might require building a new house at sleep to get there—yes, you have to sleep so you could accommodate love without trying to kill yourself, or me, or us. But you will get there, you will lie down in a bed—that's not really a bed is a way to stop you from torturing me, but you will and I will and there will be a thing called inevitable postponement by way of a condom with a conked out tip. It will be frightening and we will be thinking of faith, if we are truly human. We will be silent for a while, crouched down, and the split second will be photographed so that one day we will have ourselves enlarged.

[The film should not continue. The film continues.]
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