This One's Yours

This one's yours.
It's absolutely yours.
Utterly, vigorously...

I can't keep this thing from coming to you.
It's a loose trigger
on a gun full of flowers.

I must admit I'm undone
by how it slips past.
Undeniably...
So so so
undeniably yours.

Lightning comes as a thing of pride,
hailing in before it's heard.
But, no, this thing is more like the thunder
that reverberates through the corridors of the body
and mingles with the very soul after the light show has been unsurped by a meager moment's passing.

Because
this one's yours.

Your birthright, your breath before your name.
The dream on your mother's breast before she found you
lying in her arms
or living in the stars she dragged down when she picked
it out for you.

I could never call it mine.
It sparked many fires
and drove my art in two factions:
a Chopin nocturne and the lost Pompeii.

Is it that I wasn't worthy enough?
You had it bound when you learned to scream
and cry so often,
tenderly through the night
at not understanding the world
and rouse it up from me
when you became so beautiful besiding the twhirls with your own sovereign dress of day by your black stroked locks
and a face of peaceful indignation they call amateur
because it was not trained when it was born supple
and bright,
mestiza melanin into the organic shapeness of the bone,
and cultic mooncrest in the lostness of the eyes.
This might
have come from you initially.
That is why it's inescapably yours.
A subtle interest in yourself that makes poetry wreath in its words for an imaginative journey through your love.

This one's yours.
Incapable of being anyone else's, less it enlarge a weaker heart that needs change to engulf it.




---------------DEDICATED TO A FRIEND READING THIS NOW