David Sam

Listen. Someone will ask
for a name, any name,
to award their sadness
with my delirious hope.

I call the petal by a woman’s name,
the thorn by a man’s,
and the rose entire, nothing
is the summation

of all love.

Maybe the ink I use
to stain new pages old
will convey the strain
of music

or desire.

The expense of spirit
knows no shame.

The best interruptions occur
when I am busy
being a hungry creature,
so jealous of others’ light
lust glows in me.

I snatch at meanings
like a boy after fireflies.
Their constellations enmeshed
in weaves of dark energy
that ignore my naming.

I am everybody now.
I call myself every epithet.
Sometimes someone answer back.