Bad Faith

Calm isles: call tall turrets, curl the silence

of your gentle days into hard fists,

tuck your plenty up above the soffits of your

highest palace and pose yourself

as you would have us remember you.

The seas are set against your shores.

Soon

its waves will crawl along your lintelpiece

Trace your line of teeth against your lips:

here will the salt sit, here the strange warmth of tides

glide below the bundle of your gums, here

flossy weeds strum behind your tonsils—

have you even thanked the sands?

Call tall turrets, call ballista, scorpion,

crenelate your beaches, bear your shield.

I swear the water hates you for your salt.

The wind will carry our flags. It owes us

for its name; it knows our rooftops and

obeys our walls. Already it kicks the surf.

The sky shares a border and will be more circumspect,

but the wind has stayed in your home.

Ball your tenderness up and swallow it like a moth,

still squirming and alive, seeking the light at the

base of your spine. No need for simple thoughts

where we’re going. You will arrive there unaware.

Your dreams should be of deserts, shattered ice,

crispy leaves and skeins of wool, clear starlight

through old glass. No need for simple thoughts.

All you will have to give is what you have.

All you will have to give is what you

have, I swear.