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There are no Beginnings

he says there are no beginnings
only endings and lessons

regrets tucked behind the ear
like moon shocks
like raw nerve explosions
like quiet deliberations rooting
underneath rose flannel sheets at 3 am

when our bodies decline conference
choose altercation
and discard the words we would have chosen
in heaps of denim & cottony goodness
on the floor

he says when we kiss, 7 planets interfere
with the alignment of our lips

reposition our bodies in momentary disbelief
so that my hesitation slides off him easily
and his unwillingness to commit more readily
melts inside my hips

i tell him
i do not understand exactly why
roman numerals
invade my thoughts
or poems

except that my moments are choppy
and to label them in a series, then bundle them up for winter
protects a whole girl
and if she is not whole,
at least it keeps her warm

he says there are no words to explain my tendencies--
the distance & confusion created when i turn my back
to his side of the bed, create one million tributaries between us
then mumble in my light headedness
about completion, connection, the corruption of johnson st.
& how my vision in '99 destroyed any hope of good living.

i tell him i suffer from post traumatic stress disorder
inability to connect, fetal alcohol syndrome, depression,
anxiety, fear of abandonment, fear of isolation, fear, period.
anything to make this distance sound clinical
and not of my own making

it's bullshit

he says there are no beginnings
only endings & lessons
regrets tucked behind the ear
like moon shocks
like raw nerve explosions
like a girl taking notes during those quiet deliberations

when 7 planets misalign the entanglement of our lips
and tell me to
wake up, holier

& crawl out of the mouth
i've been dreaming in.
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bex box : poetry : there are no beginnings