Wanting Without Getting
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So I didn’t want to post this until I placed the hard copy safely in Joseph Fink’s hands, but inspired by his call for paintings of deer wearing portraits of other deer, I wrote this. I wound up calling it "The September Songs" after it was done. It is a series of poems about deer, from the perspective of deer, in the shape of a deer wearing a portrait of another deer. Each body segment is a different numbered passage, each tine of the antlers is a different beginning to the same body, all flowing into each other. Together the movements tell a loose set of stories about living with a culture of death.
The context of desire is often so negative. Greed. Envy. Covetousness. The implication being that desire always demands its own ends. Wanting begets getting. Which is an easy assumption to make in a culture where the pursuit of things is paramount.
But does it have to?
So many beautiful and necessary things come from wanting. Aspiration. Dreams. Making connections. Creating fiction. So much.
Savor hunger amid consumerism. Window shop. Have a distant crush. Partake in escapism. Envision a future.
I don’t miss you, I just miss your mouth. I miss the ring of your voice, its sonority and drawl, I miss the gravity of your oration. Being buried under words so deep and warm, fathoms of diction to swim through. I miss the texture of each one of your kisses—firm, crisp, with a little snap at the end of each one as it broke free. An equal measure of push and pull. The hesitant tap of tongue on tongue, a Morse to request entry. I miss the dance of your tongue between my legs like a dousing rod honing in to the treasure. The slither and suck and savory wet. A persistent pulse and flick that made my legs twitch.
But where I dug for honey in that mouth I found a hive of bees. I have developed allergies from exposure. I miss not having allergies. I miss a lack of aversions. I miss being able to turn open my mind and not hear that persistent buzzing. It is deafening. And every honey I taste tastes of furious wings and stings and clamoring little feet. Every lip my lips meet. I miss a crisp little snap in place of dread humming.