Wind in a Box

after Lorca

I want to always sleep beneath a bright red blanket
of leaves. I want to never wear a coat of ice.
I want to learn to walk without blinking.
 
I want to outlive the turtle and the turtle’s father,
the stone. I want a mouth full of permissions
 
and a pink glistening bud. If the wildflower and ant hill
can return after sleeping each season, I want to walk
out of this house wearing nothing but wind.
 
I want to greet you, I want to wait for the bus with you
weighing less than a chill. I want to fight off the bolts
 
of gray lighting the alcoves and winding paths
of your hair. I want to fight off the damp nudgings
of snow. I want to fight off the wind.
 
I want to be the wind and I want to fight off the wind
with its sagging banner of isolation, its swinging
 
screen doors, its gilded boxes, and neatly folded pamphlets
of noise. I want to fight off the dull straight lines
of two by fours and endings, your disapprovals,
 
your doubts and regulations, your carbon copies.
If the locust can abandon its suit,
 
I want a brand new name. I want the pepper’s fury
and the salt’s tenderness. I want the virtue
of the evening rain, but not its gossip.
 
I want the moon’s intuition, but not its questions.
I want the malice of nothing on earth. I want to enter
 
every room in a strange electrified city
and find you there. I want your lips around the bell of flesh
 
at the bottom of my ear. I want to be the mirror,    
but not the nightstand. I do not want to be the light switch.
I do not want to be the yellow photograph
 
or book of poems. When I leave this body, Woman,
I want to be pure flame. I want to be your song.
 

“Wind In a Box – after Lorca” from Wind in a Box by Terrance Hayes, copyright © 2006 by Terrance Hayes.  Used by permission of Penguin Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. 
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