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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
Wouldn
Leave
Pony
Either
Ponies
Come
Drag
Believe
Hasn
Like
Anyway
Woods
Kill

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You wanted happiness, I can’t blame you for that, and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy but tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.
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If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.
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Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.
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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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Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.
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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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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'm bleeding, I'm not just making conversation.
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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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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 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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Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me. We are all going forward. None of us are going back.
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We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.
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You are playing cards with three Jeffs. One is your father, one is your brother, and the other is your current boyfriend. All of them have seen you naked and heard you talking in your sleep. Your boyfriend Jeff gets up to answer the phone. To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room.
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You’re falling now. You’re swimming. This is not           harmless. You are not                     breathing.
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Do we simply stare at what is horrible and forgive it?
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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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The light is no mystery, the mystery is that there is something to keep the light from passing through.
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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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When you have nothing to say, set something on fire.
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