The Moon for a Fire The moon was a bitten fire, disrobing in the forest. Orange in yellow like a burning circus tent huffs billowing gasps in a lightless plain. What scares me is not going up in flames: slouching, toned but tamed under some chair. When the circus tent writhes like a dancer rehearsing it’s never been more free. Just that internal light swallowing the seating scorching the grass absorbing everything transmuting every thing into light. Let me. And then the darkness that is healing and rest --potent domicile-- take what’s left: smoldering hints, god-going smoke.

A Single Star A single star —one romantic said— was all he needed. But I – I need constellations. I don’t know why my dreams differ from yours, but I won’t be your ever-shining sun. I’ll be reliable as the moon, gone traveling dark new terrain, then obscured by clouds, then fully present and shining for your gay gaze and touch, cheese my moon skin’s smooth texture. This is me. Think cats– they have feelings just like the moon is always in the sky but you can’t always see it; it doesn’t share its light like you would like. A single star isn’t me, but that don’t stop me from wishing on a binary star that I could be satisfied with only you. But like Mizar and Alcor, I need to be together and a part of something major. Like the letters of a poem. This poem you’ll never hear, it’s the Horsehead Nebula, it’s birthing billions; this poem you’ll never hear is made up of letters, unread letters, burning like suns-- how they make a difference even from far away, even from lifetimes ago, like the words we never say have a gravity we might not believe. Yesterday, Douglas, I forgot to breathe at the memory of you. The moon, fell slower than leaves, to remind me, graceful and enchanting, like watching a snow globe. I wanna lay myself down with a creator, while he basks in my light and shade, and that of our neighbors, and neither of us is a black hole disappearing the energy of others. Yeah. If I could I’d live on this planet in a house with wooden floors, a tin roof, and windows for walls, and there I’d lie next to this someone I haven’t yet met, like the river with the ocean --like that eternal collision. Like the river lies with the ocean and makes a fertile mess.

A Few Haiku 1. River cheers itself, a glowing, easeful struggle. What have I to learn? 2. We were practicing our fondness for each other to night’s sounds and stars. 3. (The Most Peacefully Dead Skunk) Soft fur of a skunk, gently coiled, freshly dead: black rest in green plain. 4. At night the pack comes together, paw at my heart; warmth is ours to make.

Angels and Aliens I told my landlady I was from the US And she believed me at first. It explained a lot: Why I was vegetarian, Why I was impatient, Why I studied too much. But we both felt it, when she realized I’m from much further away from Resistencia, Chaco, Argentina than just the USA. I had tried to cook a soup, my first on Earth. It was so bad that this 73-year-old woman was given enough ganas to all at once lift the heavy heavy pot in one hand and a shovel in the other. She said, No hay ningún chorro que nos sacaría esto. Qué es un chorro? I asked. But she was so focused digging the hole that she didn’t notice the question. Or maybe it was the day I moved in that she figured it out. She said something else about cuidado and chorros that day, too. I told her Si viene un chorro, tocaré mi trompeta. I didn’t ask what the word meant then because I knew that making conversation was more important than making sense. She cackled a knowing laugh. It was the same kind of laugh every time she’d ask, ¿Por qué no me dejás cocinarte algo con carne? She asked this about 3 times a day, and I was irritated after the first four months. Señora, I told her, Jesús una vez me vino en un sueño y me dijo que no debo comer carne. Oooo, she responded, ¿por qué no me dijiste antes? It was a great lie, because she was a devout Catholic and because I said it like I meant it. Learning Spanish well is as hard as learning to lie well. A practiced lier is efficient, can seem close but keep his distance. The more lies, the more chance the spider’s web becomes obvious. But this lie was worth it for some peace. To understand your culture, I’d stay up with her ‘til late. I’d play music for her, ancient gospel church songs, slow and muddy like the chocolate creamy dream of the Río Paraná, like its water looks at night by the bridge lights. Cross the bridge on foot at night. There’s nothing like it in all your galaxy. Like the water, that deep, that moving, that irresistible, we would charlar, And she’d tell me about her dead lover whom she talks to sometimes still, like she talks to Jesus. I told her I once heard my dead uncle’s voice: “I’m watchin’ out for ya.” True story. And when I told her she said, Síii, eso pasa, más y más. Hacen eso. We were tight, me & the landlady, despite the lies. In fact, one night she baked me a veggie casserole. With ham hidden inside. The next day I told her, Anoche no pude dormir para nada. Toda la noche vomitando, con escalofríos y fiebre. I said it like it was true. Pusiste algo de animal? Che! She said. No puse nada de animal en tu comida. I looked as sick as I could. I burped. Bueno, un jamoncito, ¡no más! I think she knew I was lying. I think she always knew. I built so many webs and she sliced right through them. My mission was to observe without loving anyone, but I failed. And now I have to live loving someone I can’t see because tomorrow I leave for home. Tonight though was the anniversary mass of her husband’s passing. Sitting in her kitchen afterwards, she reminisced. Cada vez que viajabamos en el colectivo, él miraba hacia abajo leyendo su libro. Los músculos de su mejilla se tensaban. Quizás por algo interesante que había leído . Yo estaba... estaba tan agradecida de poder tocar esa mejilla cuando quisiera. de conocer el corazón debajo de ella y la mente sobre ella. Desearía poder soñar con él leyendo todas las noches. Sus pestañas. Sus músculos tensándose en el colectivo.

World AIDS Day 2016 There's a laughter strutting still in the riverbed of my memory: dreadlocks softly whip like a river sloshes at its bank. I see you, too, dressed in Africa, foggy amber eyes like spiral staircases descending into the catacombs of your library brain. And there is a man, sitting alone, (tonight, Dec. 1, 2016) in the Haight, gazing at his cat's softly breathing body. His thoughts of coughs and Kaposi's sarcoma flicker against erotic dalliances, amorous play. He is the only one from his generation to be alive. A woman rests in the woods of the Ozarks somewhere east of my home on the hill. She is not alone. She and her partner spoon: the younger a listening vessel, the older a storyteller, reciting pain and sass, community care, and how during the night another lover passed, and everyone felt her lifting up through the Victorian house's layers. How her partner came down without spoken notice, knowing. "We kissed on the lips even if they were the dying sort of sick. Especially if they were." I sit alone, gay, a content poet, cooly dressed fabulous, at the intersection of where we have been and soon we'll be. Breathing a bit more belly at the thought of my whole humxn family, pretty and whole, then the lapping memory of my history teacher's eyes or the irrepressible bounce of his gait and hair.

If happiness is mental silence, then poems help quiet the world. The poems here were written between from 2013-2017 in Seattle, Madurai and Fayetteville. The geography is less relevant though than the life changes: coming into a less conditional love for myself and moving into a place of responsibility for immigrants' lives. The biggest change though was experiencing the unexpected passing of two beloved family members and not denying the growth that this situation offered but rather integrating the opportunities this grief grew. Ironside Photography took the photo on the back cover, and I'm also grateful to Stephen and all my caretakers who helped carry me through grief and into nature for healing, poetry and pictures. I hope you get a moment's mental silence with this patchwork quilt, spanning four years and three cities. Let me know what you think. Stephen Coger Queer Planet Fayetteville, AR