I had nothing, just promises and a lover,
just the body of a man to say (in the summer
of reddish afternoons) “when I stretch above him
I feel I could touch the fleeting borders of happiness.”
I had no house, no sky, no freedom,
no other dove upon my fevered brow
than his dark kiss, no other root than his sex
sinking into my flesh, fixing me to the earth,
I had nothing more than his words, musical words
that he left in his passing and which I harvested
…………like wild strawberries,
stains, howls I kept upon white pages
to mark my course toward false glory.
I had nothing, not even the certainty of being alive.
If I had some life, I lived it in the petit morts
…………he gave me.