With the Cold, Cold Water

 

With the Cold, Cold Water

(“This is the teaching you have heard from the beginning: We must love each other.” 1 John 3:11)

I was born with the cold, cold water streaming across my toes,
I was born with my head held fully upside-down.
I have lived sideways and hidden,
I have lived every way and have, unbidden,
sought friendship that would last for more than
a year and a half.

I was born in Texas, I remember that,
or was told. West Texas where the oil spurts and
the hills are flat.
I have lived coastal and prairie,
I have lived every town and have, unsurely,
sought placement among cohorts that would last for more than
a lifetime and a half.

I was born like others, I am sure of that,
or know it. I was raised first of four whisked across 66
to East L.A.
I have lived playground and school dance,
I have lived every kiss and tell, transplanted
before anyone knew me well enough to leave the floor early
with a better boy.

I was born lean and long, I’ve seen the photos,
and so I should have kept it up, but stopped short before
my teen years hit me.
I have lived every Shakespeare and absurd,
I have lived improv and dialogue, undeterred
by poor reviews and silly plots. I only wanted to end my
life well.

I was born, so were you. We were born for companionship.
I didn’t guess that, and neither did you. It’s just my slipups that
block the view.
I have lived to find a single friend,
I have lived every dream that fades; I would amend
everything I said (stupid dreams of a boy too young) to keep
a friendship I may have thrown away.

I was born, I have lived, but my tears are uncanny. My emptiness
almost insanity. So I ask, handle me with care, be gentle with me.
I am less damaged than you think, only another castaway dressed in skin
looking to be a friend if I have to learn it again and again.