Photos of honeycomb and bees have been layered into a rectangular repeating background.

Gaia Thomas “stonecrop moon”

Download poem in original format:

Distant lover. I write across the lenses of our mutilation. I write in
time and must claim a you to my I. When I was the lake the lake was
self entire. But here I hold the water in my leaves and am your
telephium. What survived selection shaped itself into receiver. When
we were water I did not look for you. The ground got wet. Now I
wait for the floor to be troubled with your vibrations. I concealed
myself in the rock to evade creation. My legs had come unhinged and
I needed a forest of kelp to mend them. I left them in disarray, I was
ashamed, forgive me. They told me if I claimed you it would end me.
Under my skin the lie molted snow. The ground got wet. They
consoled me with memory. My leaves burned with the hard swell of
estrangement. Beloved the water picture I hold will tremble when
yours does. Like a nut I found this stone in my heart and gave it
water. There is a punishment for escaping chronologies. From here
we drop names and interrogate the limits of motion. Come to hull
slipped from seed; seed slipped from hull. Before the sequestration
into names we were a field of generous potentials. A scene covers
the doorway. We touch under some wild grape vines. Ecstasy. With exits
everywhere it was easy then. They pacified with time and swaddled
us in latex. For years I feared discovery. Identity served only to isolate
my longing. Proud as a wound. Because the sun ended the day I stuck
out from the horizon. I whistled in hope of other bodies. A mouth
and ears and lungs and tongue. Translation soars in search of life
these corpses left behind. For taut leaves giving off a moist fog. To
whom shall I address the estrangements?
Gather the nectars. Let me
taste in the honey some essence of you. Distant beloved. She (within
the hive) quit (lay a fruit) their games (nourished every bird).
[Wanted to take a picture. very suicide, an art perfected. How much
time before the blood runs out?
And what about when she wanted to be
held? Abstraction settles into form when we reduce the violence by
degrees. I am trying to become the world for myself. I make of sex
voices a surrogate. My wants exceed the water globe. To be) Even
rows of trees tweezed into place (fucked and unharmed. My
equations fail to compensate for conservation of woe. I have in the
seeds of her teeth spread out to dry sought compensation. He raked
the gravel in yellow overalls with holes cut out for the nipples. There
is no (a residue) replacement for (left on) the other (my hunger).
Nothing to be made out of clay and a rib. Some comfort in
persistence. Contra collective. An aversion to porosity. I leaned into
your reverb. This wish born still.]