Love Is Written in the Geography of My Face

America the Big

you take me to the village where you were born
wind rips the sky from our hair
our faces are blown off
by the squally edge
the sea does that
it makes us gusted
the past leaps into the present
in yoga I align my chakras
you like science, surgeon fishes, and logical 
explanations for feelings
on the window you smoke cigarettes
a habit you never picked up and will never have to quit
that’s life
saying things you want instead of the things that are
I will take you to a place 
that opens your mouth with its bigness
it’s called America
you can spread your thrill across it until you lose it
it’s that big
with the correct papers you can have it 
draw electricity on my arm
while I cook your dinner
we drive through the middle of many things
we watch our hair turn gray
I want to eat your hair
I think that’s love
love is warmer than sex and wounds
it’s so big

Tell Me What It’s Like to Love Me

A woman can look like this, too, I say, to my face
in the mirror. By this I mean boy, and by boy 
I also mean woman. I touch my cheek like I would 
touch the cheek of someone I love. You. You are 
someone I love, and I touch your cheek like it. 
I run a hand over close-cropped cowlicks 
cut with kitchen shears in a friend’s bathroom.
So many lines, there and there, a record of jokes.
My existence lives right here 
for strangers to see. How personal it feels 
to be alive. How unhide-able it is to have a face,
and especially, I think, mine.
When in certain geographies yes sir turns cruel.
Where a mistake cuts the air between us.
Where a man is made to feel dumb, 
lied to about the ellipsis of my life.
They were wrong and I am wrong.
Boyish butch me 
smiles and smiles and smiles and smiles and smiles
like I’m sorry
like forgive me
like please
please don’t.

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