At the Garden's Edge

A poem by Sheridan Coomer

At the Garden's Edge
           after Terrance Hayes

I want to want simplicity. I want to wake up with crease lines and heavy eyes full
of sleep gunk. I want to rub them a touch too hard. I want to lean 
into the kaleidoscope colors of my mind. I want her memory, but not her prison. I do not want to stay there forever.

If the light returns, I want to wander into the kitchen. I want to jump at the coolness of the tile, chilled by a years-long absence of the sun. I want to stand on my tiptoes as I wait 

         for the kettle to boil. I want my body to call heat back into herself; shuttering and shaking. I want to complain, freely, about the shaking, about the cold. I do not want to put on socks instead. 

I want to take my tea into the garden; share it with
the bugs and the birds. I want my lungs filled free from impurities. I want the dew drops to find new valleys in between my toes. I do not want to know what time it is. I do not want to know how much          is left. 

If I am always but a child, I want a tongue that speaks only with conviction.
A mind that is a quiet blooming of a garden.
An unfettered rage satiatated by a designated seat at the table. 

I want you to join me at the garden’s edge. I want you to peel back the sky; peak behind the veil. I want the vastness to shine through, but not the void. I do not  want to scare you. 

I want you to give me your hand; allow your fingers to trace the edges of our soul; feel each inch of your palm come alive at the unadulterated warmth of the sun.

I want to know everything. I want to know nothing. I do not want to ever reach the threshold of my knowing. I do not want to know anything for certain. Not anything at all.

I want to be known. I do not want you to see me. I want to be naked; unabashedly brilliant. I do not want you to see me. I want you to want to see me. I want to want you to see me.

I am sure of it.        I am sure. 

---