under cold suede
I am the heat in my nostrils
the mist in my breath
the air, cold clouds
the threat of rain
the rain
what is rained on
I am the green of the stem the reaching rose the source that reaches
the sun it reaches for
the bee that drinks
the nectar clinging
to my own legs
I am a dark lonely sound
in the house of myself
the intruder I'm afraid to meet
I am the child afraid
of the shadow beneath the bed
the shadow dispelled by light
the light
the parent
a child in my own arms
I am not
sleek and lithe
buff or rugged
lumberjack-handed
swimmer-bodied.
no money, no stuff,
no shiny objects
tattoos
war wounds
an Oedipal complex
a wish to fly
I don't smell like a summer breeze
baby's breath
Old spice
or your father
My nails aren't trim
I don't wear
anything I bought with my own
money
jewels or gold, holes in my ears
or lips or eyebrows
anything unstained
or hole, or fray
or perfect fit
I don't sound
like Clint
Ja Rule
smooth as silk
harsh as sand
What I am
you can't see.
-Martin Williams
