“To Put the Gun Down”, “The God Poem”, “It Was Beautiful As It Was”, and “Pirate Ship”

By Madeira Miller

 

 

To Put the Gun Down

 

The psychology book states to me that sex is more

than intercourse.           Of course, I say. Any poet

will tell you that. No, no,           any lover will tell you

that.           I consult the textbook with its jaundiced

pages and clinical lexicon.           We relish in one

another’s presence           in the alcove of a coffee shop

on Commercial Street           immersed in our own

togetherness.           Sex (noun): glorious arms

and legs wreathed together.           Of course

it’s more than that.           His hands on the steering

wheel,           the psychology textbook chimes in.

The way he said my name in the arc of laughter

in the kitchen together, as well.           The turbulent

tremble in his voice when he told me about his

father.           Can’t forget that one.           I recount

the way he embraced me in my PJs when he picked

me up and swung me around.           The psychology

textbook concurs.           Oh, and when he promised

to teach me how to shoot a gun           so as to keep

myself safe, remember?           Sex is feeling safe

with him.           The gun, as I recall, was not in

its holster that night.           That was sex.           We

didn’t even fuck until the next morning.           That

was definitely sex.           Sex (verb): to put the gun

down.           Sex (noun): the act of forgetting

about self-defense entirely.           I place my finger

on the pulse of the psychology book’s tacit breathing

words           sensitive as an eye           just like when

he reached for my hand amidst the waning crowds

of a dive bar like a sanctum.           That was sex

all along, wasn’t it.           Two celestial bodies

that don’t need to touch in order to know the strength

of their orbit.           Sex (noun): not necessarily the touch.

The psychology book nods.           Sex (noun): the orbit.

 

 

 

The God Poem

 

Amidst an urgent wringing

of hands, you finally find

the courage to write

 

the God poem.

Now, suddenly, you can’t stop

writing the God poem.

 

Every poem you write

becomes the God poem.

You start to uncover God

 

in places where you never

thought or wanted Him

to be: the lampshades,

 

the walls, the gas station

on the corner seated in a pool

of luminous yellow,

 

the eye-level seat

of a public toilet.

You never noticed until now

 

that God was there

with a holy cigarette

tucked behind His ear,

 

holding your hair back for you.

Ain’t that something.

 

 

 

It Was Beautiful As It Was

 

Resistant as I always was and always will be

to change, I was devastated when we moved states

 

in ’03. Likewise, I panicked when my mother

got a mole removed from her cheek.

I thrashed and squirmed

 

in my car seat, insisting, “I liked your face exactly

how it was. It was beautiful as it was.”

 

*

 

On the day my youngest sister was born,

the jellybean store collapsed

 

beneath the weight of a snowfall

that would’ve frozen the skin in ten hours.

That’s what the radio said

 

on the drive to the hospital. Good things,

from my understanding, usually end

 

in collapse. In a surgical ripping apart

of flesh. In an overnight car ride

to an unfamiliar state.

 

But I held an infant that evening:

eight pounds of palpable proof

 

that change isn’t always devastating

as death and winter.

 

*

 

I didn’t much like it

when my father stopped wearing glasses

 

after Lasik surgery, when my parents

painted the walls or replaced the broken

 

coffee maker. I resented

the way my grandmother’s hair grayed,

 

how my father’s hairline receded,

how my clothes went out of style and my sister

 

grew taller and then stronger than me.

I thought I’d never forgive the hands

 

of the clock or the hands of God

for making the world this way. For making me

 

this way. But you can imagine the surprise

on my mother’s mole-less face when I told her

 

I’m considering cutting my hair short.

 

 

 

Pirate Ship

 

I was feverous: I was ill,

afflicted with desire, burning

through a dark and stormy night.

The swimming, vacuous

moons of my pupils, bigger

than they’ve ever been,

adoring you. Situated

within a cathedral of arms,

of muscle and pheromonal cologne,

the casket of your chest

wherein I could’ve laid

for another century, maybe.

Bodies pieced together,

I can’t hold enough of you

in my hands, surely you understand

that this is music, the sound

of us breathing in tandem.

Watching you go down,

a captivating sunset sinking

into my horizon. A love letter

lost at sea, though I regret to admit

that it was never written.

All along, I secretly hoped

you’d make a home out of the harbor.

Forgive me for dreaming

long into the frigid sea

salt morning that you’d stay

anchored to me.

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