Is it fair to long to save oneself?
To feel as I feel hearing
A single loon making its call
where are you?
The imprint of it:
A beak, the fluttering artifact
Of my lungs,
You were miniscule.
But your wingspan — terrifying.
Then bird after bird
In my ribcage:
What you witness here is holy
Leave this place
And in the ensuing hush:
I would not sacrifice
Everything for you.
There it is.
After the silence, a lone bird repeats:
I am here. Where are you?
Do you hear those crows they are announcing death but the mystery is the death of what? Let’s guess. I’ll say Summer. I’ll say Summer’s body was finally ready to give out & go home & listen to the unnameable birds, birds we will never see nor hear because what are we? I am bones. You are bones too. You are more deliberate than I am here. When you speak I like to listen to you because when you speakit feels like hearing a story about the first time somebody saw the ocean, no matter what you’re saying. Those crows have never seen the ocean & that in itself is its own kind of death, probably. Maybe Summer isn’t dead after all. Maybe Summer has just dug a hole in the dirt somehwere & is ready to lay down for a while & dream of all the things that happen while Summer is gone. Bones turn into trees. We manage to stay warm. Wings disappear.
permit this respite
to serve as the sole motivation
you need to bless me with a recognizable ‘hello’
to revive some sense of warmth
think not of me as an inferno
but as a campfire, your energy source
i want to help sustain your frequencies
the frequencies that once ran from your blue blazing fingertips through the lampshade excuse of brain i have
think me as you once did
you would tell me 100 reassuring words
i regret writing this and
i do not miss you
after the painting by Kay Sage
I don’t want to lean this far away from you,
but bone-shudder tall and still, you’ve turned
so rigid. Backed into a corner, windblown
cliffs stiff against sunwash—have you angled
away from me, or from us all? Baby,
I call you baby from exasperation. There’s more
to see in this world if we don’t let it dry up
around us. Once, we found love in this
landscape: cholla blooming like my bouquet,
petaled fury. A gust blows up my skirt and I wish
you’d laugh with me. Crouch down. Look at this
slash of blue rock against red dirt. See, a sprout
of some wild something rooted in the hard earth,
reaching for the wind we make with our hands.
If by real you mean as real as a shark tooth stuck
in your heel, the wetness of a finished lollipop stick,
the surprise of a thumbtack in your purse—
then Yes, every last page is true, every nuance,
bit, and bite. Wait. I have made them up—all of them—
and when I say I am married, it means I married
all of them, a whole neighborhood of past loves.
Can you imagine the number of bouquets, how many
slices of cake? Even now, my husbands plan a great meal
for us—one chops up some parsley, one stirs a bubbling pot
on the stove. One changes the baby, and one sleeps
in a fat chair. One flips through the newspaper, another
whistles while he shaves in the shower, and every single
one of them wonders what time I am coming home.
For the barbacks and the line cooks, this one’s
for you, for the jostle and bustle of
busboys hustling tips, for the aprons
and grease, for the fluorescent light above,
for how her hair falls at the nape of her
neck, for the way memory works, something
I chase, something I can’t control, slow burn
of swoon-jazz on the jukebox, for the sting
of tequila, for the draft beer on tap,
for the ones who come back night after night,
for yesterday’s special wrapped up as scraps
and for those who pass through just for a bite
or some human contact, for busting ass
and for refilling every empty glass.