The Book of Mary (America)

I can't remember waking up in love with you,

because I don’t remember falling asleep in love with you.

You and I are a million words that don’t exist yet,

startled one hour, starving for each other the next,

both of us underdeveloped in our togetherness,

cutting each other’s wrists in the kitchen sink,

blood the color Henry Miller would write it,

in a moment when we both realize there is no use lingering,

pain like God’s pain, his eyes bulging from the wars,

through the blue room you can feel it in your throat,

you tear your clothes off, hang yourself by your hands with rope,

you are the most secret thing in the world, rain on a dark child’s face,

you break me because you want all of me,

you love me because the pain is that enormous,

this is right now, tonight, yesterday, a million years in the future,

I drive in a yellow cab looking for you everywhere,

“Come,” I hear you saying; “Come,” I hear in darkness;

“People are just things,” you keep signing to me in my hand—

as though we can both just edit a lifetime full of mistakes.