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I wouldn’t kill your pony. I’d like to believe it, anyway. I’d like to believe I wouldn’t drag you out in to the woods and leave you there, either. So far, it hasn’t come up.

Richard Siken

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Richard Siken
Age: 57
Born: 1967
Born: February 15
Poet
New York City
New York
Kill
Wouldn
Leave
Pony
Either
Ponies
Come
Drag
Believe
Hasn
Like
Anyway
Woods

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The light is no mystery, the mystery is that there is something to keep the light from passing through.
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He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place – well then, game over.
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The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell. Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time.
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I’m not suggesting the world is good, that life is easy, or that any of us are entitled to better. But please, isn’t this the kind of thing you talk about in somber tones, in the afternoon, with some degree of hope and maybe even a handful of strategies?
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Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.
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You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.
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I'm bleeding, I'm not just making conversation.
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I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you've taken something out of me and I have to search my body for scars.
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Who am I? I'm just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later.
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Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there? The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube?
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If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.
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Oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued.
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Here I am in a rabbit run, here I am in a valley of pine, waiting for you to find me. I could pretend I’m speaking to everyone—assume a middle distance and transcend myself—but I’m taking to you and you know it.
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I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything, couldn’t do it anyway, just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made any sense, anything.
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You’re falling now. You’re swimming. This is not           harmless. You are not                     breathing.
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The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling.
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When you have nothing to say, set something on fire.
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I sleep. I dream. I make up things that I would never say. I say them very quietly.
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I don't know where I end and the world begins. My best guess? Skin. It's the only actual boundary between the body and the world, between a body and any other body.
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