Rickey Laurentiis

Prayers

We are forced to consider this tension between God and nature and are thus confronted with the nature of God because He is man’s most intense creation and it is not in the sight of nature that the homosexual is condemned, but in the sight of God.

– James Baldwin, Preservation of Innocence.

I. dear Lord (in a dream)

Could it have gone another way? I could
have kept the jumping tick inside myself
or else I could have called Your name. Oh lord,
the parish would have said had they the breath.
Misuses of the powers of sex—and love:
a verdict, quick and as steadfast as death.

Is this a dream? Heavy and black as death,
tar black like the boy that caught me and could
not leave. I told myself that it was love
kicking like a hungry babe. And I was self-
less. Yes, I fed it. Though I had no breath,
no Adam’s kiss from the lips of you, Lord.

Why me? Why can’t your grace kiss me? Lord,
I walk here at the edge of life and death,
my bones the color of my dripping breath,
and think you’re not a god at all. I could
have made you up—out of fear—for myself.
I could have made you just to make me love.

And yet it’s love—or it’s this breed of love
to kill, that kills. It kills even you, Lord.
Can’t you see it sweeping like a self-
ish cancer, a love invasive as death?
A saint would have stopped it, huh? Could
have clipped the tick and sipped your breath.

But I kept it. Tick. His and my boy breath,
his and my boy tongue, his and my boy love.
Rolling in, out, stiff as poplar, wet: we could
have been two storms meeting. Oh lord,
we could’ve been a body nearing death.
Who would’ve stopped? Who would’ve told himself

to starve that second mouth inside? What self
would fight against such moving calm of breath
but that damn saint—who welcomes death
of any use he cannot claim: of any love?
Even your name: King of Kings, Lord of Lords.
Should he use it to murder if he could?

Still, the parish and myself rejoice in love.
They, your breath of life. Mine, against you, Lord.
So where’s death? Let him kiss me cold.

II. dear Sir (in a breeze)

I do not know why you pick death
when first there’s love.
Why flex your teeth, your breath
for Them. I am lord
and you—yourself.
I would not change that, even if I could.

I could
accept your choice of death
and keep you like a shadow to yourself.
I could believe, like Them, like Them, your Love
is queer—is not mine, your lord’s
but can’t: I know you want my breath.

You are breath.
Who could
deny it? Not a fine lord,
not yet my brother Death,
who belly-crawled so long ago for want of love—
something like yourself.

Told him: Aren’t you the complete lover, self-
less like your brothers, big-breathed
and flirting like love?
Or could
you trust this if your brothers’ death
followed your Lord’s?

And I tell you: I’m still your Lord
and you—yourself.
We share, against the hands of death,
a sort of kissing breath—
Lke Judas and Jesus, if I could
I’d rewrite that drama out of love

I would. Love
outside the chilly gates, outside a “Lord”
(for names are useless clothes anyway). Could
you pick love despite Them: the self-
realization of breath.
Then, pray death.

Before it’s love: yawning like a mouth, self-
contained, lording like only a breath
of life could. Then, pray death.