Movement

Movement

Nicholas Yancy

You move
your fingers, they drift like wind
over my heart, your hand
laid gently, hovering, waiting to feel
the current, the pulse,
the hush— wait,
just wait for 3.1415926 seconds
and see how long it really takes
to count the stars
behind your eyes;
constellations spinning about
the way home— come
full circle at last,
come 'round, see me, see
what it is to look back in on yourself
in my eyes, in your soul
spread like the wings of moths—
       you're the fire
               (just how hot
               do you burn?)
we would open up, dissect, offer up
a single cupped hand
       reaching to taste
       the milk of Paradise,
                       tearing open Heaven
                       to feel the rain fall like
the knife in the other
       (we're nailing ourselves to the wall)
ready to dive into the wings of butterflies,
lose ourselves in a sea of scales, small like
wings of stardust, embers of
what it meant to burn with passion,
now only some scientific method
and isn't it funny how
it just can't explain why
we forget
what we're looking for
when all it seems we do is search,
investigating the nature
of fireflies,
       children of the Sun, alight with
       His smile, His glare
               we'll never see past, what
               we can't understand, it's all we'll ever learn —
               physicality, purpose, appearance
                               or can we,
                               do we? —Open up
and drink the blood
of what it means to fly
       (as we cleave and tear at
       our own wings, trying to find
       the deeper meaning of things,
       and all the while
       the black-winged boy,
       he could only stare and ask)
what moves us, moves
you, moves me, what keeps us (when nothing is ours)
like ripples on water, dancing
heedless as
       —we tremble and spin
       here in our own private world, stuck between
       word and meaning, intent and movement
       movement and stillness,
       your words and
       the silence
       caught within—
all these cracks in a mirror (a jaded smile) spreading
like a cancer (rend me to pieces), fault lines, like you
raking your fingers through the ground, moving
you through me,
pulling up veins just so
you can drink from the fountain and know
what I feel when I speak your name
and what I mean when I say
I love you.