Am I to blame?
The shame and weight and rage that leave their mark
on the soles of my feet, make coal imprints as I navigate
the pot hole streets of Los Angeles, attracting the sun–––
and when the sun tips its gaze, the earth bakes and
cracks and separates, our earthquake love gripping at tears in their continents
like pieces of wrapping paper on a Christmas present, pulling from polar opposites.
Could you tell, by the stars?
Or did you feel yourself dropping to the bottom of my heart
by the change in atmosphere–––the everlasting day, slicing wind, icebergs?
When I imagined a love that could change the world,
I never thought it would come with such sacrifice and guilt.
So am I to blame,
just for thinking it?
You would never say.