When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities

thought,
What it’s time for is a garden. Or a croissant factory. What kind
of work do I need to be doing? My parents said: Doctor,
married to lawyer. The faucet said: Drip, drop,
your life sucks.

No one had the time & our solution to it
was to buy shinier watches.

It rained & we stayed inside. Played a few rounds of backgammon.
We used our indoor voices. It got so quiet I asked God
about the afterlife. Its existence, human continued existence.
He said Oh. That. Then sent his angel again. Who said Ummmmmmm.

Lemme get back to you. The angel sounded like me, early twenties,
unpaid interning. Proficient in fetching coffee, sending super
vague emails. It got so bad God personally had to speak to me.
This was annoying because I’m not a religious person. I thought
I’d made this clear to God by reading Harry Potter & not attending
church except for gay weddings. God did not listen to me. God is
not a good listener.

I am not the heterosexual neat freak my mother raised me to be.
I am a gay sipper, & my mother has placed what’s left of her hope on my brothers.
She wants them to gulp up the world, spit out solid degrees, responsible
grandchildren ready to gobble.

I want this winter

inside my lungs

on everyone. Because who knows what will happen,

but I want to, baby, want to believe it’s always possible

to love bigger & madder, even after two, three, four years,

four decades. I want a love as dirty as a snowball fight

i ask you to tell me a story about your life

& you tell me you’ve left for another country

It keeps your rage room temperature. I’ve been thinking

about how the world is actually unbearable

I’m envious

of the redwood who never has to say I am & who will

outlive me