Confessional
I admit you haven’t heard from me
in a while. In me there’s a little liar.
And a little thief. And a little whore.
Forgive me—while writing these words
I was lost in a trance . . . the sky wild
blue, fruit trees jeweled with ice . . . if not
for what I’d promised, I wouldn’t be here
at all. You were with me when I found that
box in the basement—opening it was like
entering a room & having (at last!) someone else
breathe for me. No one, as you know,
sets out to lose their mind. This poem began
as a secret—not from you, I didn’t know you
then. Now, it wears its shame like a halo.
Please, take it, rip it up, put it in your glass.
We can watch it dissolve.
Horse Thief
I’ve been wandering this
desert so long, then
another shitty little town
appears, which I mistake
(again) for an
oasis. Out
front of the saloon, a few
horses hitched up—
scrawny, mismatched
horses. O Lord, I whisper,
be my lookout, as I un-
hitch the healthiest-looking one
& simply ride
off. Long
ago, when I quit drinking
(the first time), I heard that if,
as a drunk, you were a good
horse thief, you’d be a better
horse thief
sober. I took this
as one of the promises of
sobriety. Now,
each night, my hands
come alive, hum out
sparks. Some, I hear, want
to be caught—I swear
I just want the horse.
Now
Tomorrow,
or the day after, I’ll press my
mouth to your scar & run
my tongue along it
so I can taste how you were once
opened, so I can know where
you never closed. Each
scar’s a door, we know
that—I want to whisper into
yours, I want my hands
to hover over it, I want you
to whisper please
I want you (please please please)
to beg for it.
Haecceity
This word, almost impossible
to pronounce,
means thisness, as in here
& now, as in
avoid the illusion
there can be any lack. In
the end I held your arms briefly
over your head &
warned that I was in no way
safe, that I’m not here
to save anyone, by which I meant
we could easily go
farther, by which I meant
I’m often not filled with any great love
for—of—God. But I
saw then, briefly & wholly, your
thisness, like
beeswax, it
filled me. If we’d gone farther I
don’t think I’d feel any shame, no,
it’d still be in the realm of
pure, if no longer so easy to contain
this—your—thisness.
As I Lay Dying
The dead
mother, remember how even she
gets to speak, how
words go straight up in
a thin line, quick & harmless
except when they aren’t, harmless
I mean
& how terribly
doing goes along the earth, clinging
to it? Remember
how happy it made us—the clinging—
sometimes I swear it’s all
I am—clinging, bodiless, air. Doing,
yes, clings more to the earth, but
maybe these words can work as
tethers, maybe they can be
part of the tending.
Poet and memoirist Nick Flynn has worked as a ship’s captain, an electrician, and as a case-worker with homeless adults. His most recent book is My Feelings, a collection of poems. In 2019, two new books will appear: Stay, a collection of collaborations and writings, as well as I Will Destroy You, a collection of poems. He is also the author of three memoirs, including Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, which won the PEN/Martha Albrand Award and was adapted to film as Being Flynn. His website is nickflynn.org.
Appears In
Cagibi Issue 5
