I find myself frustrated every
Tuesday and Thursday. From 11-2
I sit in a plastic chair while my brain
atrophies and slips through my ears
and nose. I try to use my hands to catch
even a little bit of the grey stuff,
a last ditch effort of self-preservation.
My attempts seem futile.
For the first ninety minutes I stare in
awe at two central figures: rosey cheeks wears khakis religiously,
while the sage is unaware of the kippah lying on his head.
They seem to be searching for the perfect answer
without knowing the question
and they aren’t disappointed when eager students
chirp and flap their wings, preparing for a lift off that won’t come.
I do my best by sitting in the corner,
observing and taking hurried notes through
horned-rims.
Rarely do I chirp or flap, knowing that the others
understand the questions before they’re asked.
A second ninety minutes is almost too painful
and a mighty
flowing down the center of the room.
This Maginot Line divides the students, natives on one side,
foreigners on the other.
A grey headed rooster sits on the edge of a government sealed
desk and asks inane questions,
never expecting an answer.
It’s a one man show.
I participate in earnest here, pulling out all the tricks to impress
and stupefy my young classmates.
There’s no clucking or skittering around here, these spring
chickens know when they’re beat.
Click, click, click
clack. A typewriter in the distance
and the clipping and clapping
resonates in my ears.
Diligently the poet taps and
taps and taps, seemingly
unceasing. What new and
glorious adventure has she
conjured today?
Maybe a story about her
childhood, one yet untold,
or perhaps one of the monsters
in her past or her present.
No, she’ll probably leave them secret.
But what to write, what to write
what to write?
Visions dance onstage
and exit to the left until curtain
call, but none hold the spotlight
and capture the sole audience
member’s attention.
In making an effort, she finally dons the most
sequined outfit she can find and
prances and flutters around until
she’s breathless,
then does it again.
And for what? Certainly not for money,
maybe for fame, but could there be love?
The line is ever so fine, some days she hates
and others she’s obsessed.
Still clicking and clacking, she doesn’t
want to write about love or her distant father
anymore.
She’s grown up and grown out and grown in
and it’s time she shows it.
She takes a step back, examines, sighs.
The only addition necessary is a soundtrack and
a dance routine.
My tiny, purple
your rings have vanished from ‘round
your waist.
You’ve fallen from orbit and into
a parking lot, glass and gravel
stuck in your feet.
This is betrayal.
My pockets have been emptied
again and again and again
on your behalf
and this is how you repay me?
With screeches and halts, a clutch
untouchable?
Oh baby, your mouth has rusted
away,
rotting from the outside in,
leaving behind the clank of a
trailer park.
Hints of nicotine stains your most
middle finger.
I can’t help taking notice as you wave it in my face.
You’re in the air, flying across
the
flying across gulfs and streams,
some of my favorite countries.
I had a dream that you emailed me.
Sentiments often repeated, I’ve found,
lose their gilded skins, and checking
my inbox was disappointing.
And now I wake up next to your facsimile,
brown eyes and stubbled jaw.
His snores are loud enough to create an avalanche.
Your eyes are broken:
big, brown, sad.
The half-smile that lies on your lips
never quite reaches them.
I don’t sleep at night
because it’s those eyes I see
in the dark.
They are haunting, and beautifully so.
When I catch them with mine,
they plead.
Are you aware?
They must be deceiving you.
They're deceiving me.
Blue, black ink dots and lines my
palms, my fingers,
evidence of a diligent distraction.
Words swirl and poke, page upon page
until there is room for nothing more.
Tomorrow, the spots will be gone
and new ink will meander
lazily unto my skin.
New words, sometimes just repetitions
of former ones,
find their way on the blank pages,
an example of their dogged loyalty.
They twist and twirl, structuring themselves
into phrases, rhymes,
flowing and flying from the end of
my pen.
Evergreen and laundry,
scents I’ve tied you to.
Clean, fresh-the
first snow of the season.
The flakes float down and
land on our heads, huddled
and making dragon’s breath.
Our scarves are wrapped tightly
and we’re wearing dull
winter coats; never looking
more radiant.
My hands are chapped, but
it doesn’t matter because yours
are calloused from hard work.
We are Ethan and Mattie.
Both coy and shy, yet we are
simultaneously lit
and burning, melting the snow
as it makes a final, futile effort to stick.
Remember that.
This is about me
and sometimes you.
I have just reached twenty-two.
What an unglamourous age filled with questions
and doubts.
Heartache arrives in droves when I realize
I have not achieved my goals.
You wished me a happy birthday
but did not use my name.
Casual, like our acquaintance.
I am a cowardess and you, a coward.
We understand how the other works because
we are one another.
You are me and I am you
and yet, we are two
worlds apart.
The sky crumbles around our heads.
You watch as the blues and blacks morph into
a strange combination
and I reach my curious hand out to catch a star or two.
You whisper that you expected it to be different,
more tragic, more romantic.
“But it’s not,” I say. “It just is what it is.”
The stars in my palm begin to burn,
and I release them.
They fall with a jingle from my freshly raw flesh.
Last leaves of fall crash down around our heads
and I wonder if the sky is falling.
You claim that it can’t, and glance at your watch.
It’s not quite time.
I’ll wait
because it’s what I do best.
Remember, though, that
I can’t wait forever.
January will come,
and soon, so no
more dawdling, please.
You said that you won’t
be dancing,
I said that was just
fine.
I lied.
You couldn’t ever catch
the disappointed inflection
in my voice because you don’t
wait for my words like I wait
for yours.
