swing set

the day i brought home a swing set 
was the day i stopped trying to talk it out.
you were painting a portrait of me
on your bedroom wall.
i was using my blood as ink
to try & write a new gospel. 
i hid it from you under my tongue. 
on the swings i could become a cantaloupe.
round & full of sweet water.
there i could believe in a life
without all the turkey meat in the fridge
& without having to put my eyes 
in a glass of water each night.
the painting you did of me looked 
like a flock of geese. you would come
& try to get me to leave the swing set
to look at it. a glimpse was enough
to know it wasn't really a portrait 
of me. it was what you craved.
we can sometimes turn our lovers
into the gender we hunger for 
& not the gender they are.
the downstairs neighbors complained
of the rocking noise of the swing set.
they clawed at the door, begging
to swing too. it was all mine though. 
i had worked too hard to lug it up
the flights of stairs. this was my glorious 
chapel. this was my elsewhere machine.
eventually i swung so hard
it broke. i wept for a whole lunar cycle.
you couldn't stop smiling.
"now we can," you said, suggesting
something i didn't understand.
"one more," i would say, meaning
i wanted just one more sway 
back & forth. your painting had spread
like a weed. ate the ceiling & some doors.
everything was covered with not-me.
you said, "here, let me show you"
taking me by the hand to pull me up
off the apartment floor.