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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.

Richard Siken

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Richard Siken
Age: 57
Born: 1967
Born: February 15
Poet
New York City
New York
Human
Seventies
Humans
Unfortunately
Kind
Entire
Time
Minutes
Takes
Desire
History
Tell
Seventy

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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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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 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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Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.
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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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Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine. I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.
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I'm bleeding, I'm not just making conversation.
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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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We can do anything. It’s not because our hearts are large, they’re not, it’s what we struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring your friends. It’s a potluck, I’m making pork chops, I’m making those long noodles you love so much.
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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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I sleep. I dream. I make up things that I would never say. I say them very quietly.
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Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands, these shins, these soapy flanks
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If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.
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We laugh & it pits the world against us.
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You’re falling now. You’re swimming. This is not           harmless. You are not                     breathing.
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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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I am singing now while Rome burns.
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He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand.
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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.
Richard Siken