John Paul Martinez

after Rilke, after Hanif Abdurraqib

The ivies are threatening
to take over my windowpane
& I will allow them

only enough space
to creep against the glass
so that a shiver of flattering light

may pinch its way into my bedroom
from whichever stellar body
is presently in the sky.

I have learned how to close my eyes
at the beginning of the sun’s long arch
over the frozen hilled cornfield.

I have feigned sleeping while a flood
of sunshine drenches the room
at even its tightest corners.

I spend the first moments of my night
-wake rising alongside the moon: lycanthrope
in manner, though hungerless at every start.

Friends, I have missed your appearance
while illuminated in firm daylight,
simply by way of rest.

I am sorry all my time is given
to the dark hours,
to the period when moonflowers stir.

I am letting my hair grow past my eyes
so you cannot notice how comfortable
fatigue has made itself inside them,

in the same manner it is difficult to judge
how tattered a home has become
after being blanketed by an army

of gentle climbing vines,
ambling themselves to some heaven
planted out of reach.

In this way, I am comforted
about never being able
to touch the stars.

It is okay to want something
that has proven itself
impossible.

It is okay to cry inside the hours
when nobody will hear
your weeping.

Friends, it is okay to remain awake
in the hope of falling in love
with something that offers little

to no distraction.
To be alive in the silence
of an entire city’s slumber.

I am learning how to be more
like the sun, how easily it activates
the granite’s sparkle.

I am learning how to become
a thing so brilliant
it can endlessly disremember

its own perennial
& unbroken
atrophy

Repeat after me:
I am a large sum.
I am a cold berth.
I am many things
I am not yet

familiar with.
There are daily wolves
that stalk at my ankles,
coaxing my body
to traipse through

each clotting noon
at a brisker pace
than warranted.
I am a night owl,
believe you me.

I regard each moonrise
as my own unveiling—
every waning satellite
beyond plain sight
is a lover I failed

to cradle back home.
The stirrings I cause
in tautest daylight
occur to remind you:
I am alive.

Each noise that hatches
behind my teeth
when the sky is as jet
as fresh charcoal
exists to remind myself:

I am living.
I am every lugubrious flower.
I am the waiting tomorrow.
I am many things.
I am not yet.

Repeat after me.