“The first children who saw the dark and slinky bulge approaching through the sea let themselves think it was an enemy ship...”
~ Gabriel García Márquez
This story used to make me laugh.
Something absurd and homey
about poor old Esteban, invented
after his death by a deprived village
of absolute morons. I remember
loving this story. You did, too.
Almost a lifetime ago, you struggled
to recall the plot you thought sprung
from Borges, and I supplied the title,
Gabo, and miraculously pulled the sad
yellow cover from my bag. Only a quarter
drunk as I would get that night, I read
the story out loud, slurring and stumbling,
lisping and laughing. You got it, anyway,
why it was funny, why it was worthy. Our first
odd entanglement, our first bold coincidence,
stirred by a dead man in a dead village.
We spent that night together, drunk and happy,
barely knowing each other, filling each other
with hilarious tenderness, finding a way to be.
Oh, what worthy hours to be hoarded, greedily saved,
tagged and labeled, preserved. Because now,
I read the story, this tale for children, and let it go
so easily, allow the pages to melt in my hands,
feel compelled to dismiss them, pray for their necessary
evaporation, magical and real. I want to disengage
you from this text that I love, have loved
so long, but you’re there, a footnote,
a carelessly inked “ha!” in the margin,
an unintentional circle, imposing and virile,
an impassive phrase. Or, something blank.
These pages are all that I have left of you.
I can’t laugh at the story now because
if your fate could be Esteban’s, then mine is
to name you and bury you at sea.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
A Sort of Apology (poem)
Let me think
of a way to say
I’m sorry -- and mean
it. I stumble
into each apology
with my weapons
drawn, my faith
guarded. I want
to be a part
of your life, but
I don’t know how,
if I can fit in.
You, round peg.
Me, round peg.
With no square hole
to hold us together
2003
of a way to say
I’m sorry -- and mean
it. I stumble
into each apology
with my weapons
drawn, my faith
guarded. I want
to be a part
of your life, but
I don’t know how,
if I can fit in.
You, round peg.
Me, round peg.
With no square hole
to hold us together
2003
Women in the Road (poem)
Melissa and I are lost
on Columbus Avenue,
on our way home
from Jamaica Plain,
a foreign land in our Boston
explorations. In her truck,
we stare at signs, laugh
at Map Quest, rehash
our days, our moments, our lives,
until a woman staggers
into the road, towards us,
through streams of winter traffic.
We stare at her, shocked, as she
lays down in the middle
of the road and rocks
flat on her back. “Call
911,” Melissa says and I
do, wait for an operator,
the police. We drive on, unsure
of the woman’s location,
prognosis, regression.
The police say they’ll be there
for her and we feel
like we’ve done something
right for once. Even though
we’re still lost and using
the Pru as our North Star
on Columbus Avenue,
on our way home
from Jamaica Plain,
a foreign land in our Boston
explorations. In her truck,
we stare at signs, laugh
at Map Quest, rehash
our days, our moments, our lives,
until a woman staggers
into the road, towards us,
through streams of winter traffic.
We stare at her, shocked, as she
lays down in the middle
of the road and rocks
flat on her back. “Call
911,” Melissa says and I
do, wait for an operator,
the police. We drive on, unsure
of the woman’s location,
prognosis, regression.
The police say they’ll be there
for her and we feel
like we’ve done something
right for once. Even though
we’re still lost and using
the Pru as our North Star
The Hows of Hat (poem)
The man smiles, disarming
me, and says, voice bobbing,
“So how’s your hat?”
Outside, it’s frigid. Nearly
twenty-below, but here in
the Pru in Boston’s Back
Bay, it’s a keen fifty-eight.
But -- and this is important
I’m not wearing a hat.
Instead, I’m paused, smile stilted,
standing in front of a sign
embossed with a large, gold
crown. Welcome
to Hallmark. I am
unprepared to answer
a question about outer
wear, but the man waits,
pleasantly enough, until
I manage, “It’s nice.”
Because it is. “And how
does it look on you?”
he bobbles. I answer
before I take the time
to consider how bizarre
this all is. “It looks great.”
Because it does. I get
compliments. The man
looks relieved, happy
for me, and I mean it
when I tell him
to Have-a-nice-day.
He nods and replies, “Good
luck with your hat.”
I laugh and glance
at the tacky plaque
on the wall behind me
and wonder how well
my hat fits after all.
me, and says, voice bobbing,
“So how’s your hat?”
Outside, it’s frigid. Nearly
twenty-below, but here in
the Pru in Boston’s Back
Bay, it’s a keen fifty-eight.
But -- and this is important
I’m not wearing a hat.
Instead, I’m paused, smile stilted,
standing in front of a sign
embossed with a large, gold
crown. Welcome
to Hallmark. I am
unprepared to answer
a question about outer
wear, but the man waits,
pleasantly enough, until
I manage, “It’s nice.”
Because it is. “And how
does it look on you?”
he bobbles. I answer
before I take the time
to consider how bizarre
this all is. “It looks great.”
Because it does. I get
compliments. The man
looks relieved, happy
for me, and I mean it
when I tell him
to Have-a-nice-day.
He nods and replies, “Good
luck with your hat.”
I laugh and glance
at the tacky plaque
on the wall behind me
and wonder how well
my hat fits after all.
Tearing Down I and II (poems)
Tearing Down I
I was up by five a.m.,
at the store by eight, opting to walk
through Somerville and Cambridge
to arrive in Back Bay energized
and ready to destroy. We were
a twelve-fisted wrecking crew,
us Hallmarkian Divas dressed
in our most casual slaughterwear.
With boxes and hammers and our very own
dusty voices, we sang and laughed
and violated the remains of our gutted
store: once the place we came
to work, now a carcass, picked
at, sucked clean, with a trail
of glitter leading to the high-
noon sun, leaving us, sunk
into the bowel of what was once
a body of glory, impenetrable
Tearing Down II
Everyone cried except for me.
I stood, dry-eyed, dry-souled,
and waited for them to dab
each other’s faces while I leaned
against the door. I wanted to laugh.
I wanted to sing. I wanted this day
to be fun, and it was. Bare-
armed, I threw shelves and glass
and yellow backdrops into the dumpster
dubbed us “The Girls of Refuse”
and littered the air with stories
about my old job. I don’t know
why I didn’t care as much
as the others about the dismantling
of a twenty-three-year-old homestead,
but I do know that I’m going to add
doesn’t do construction to my resume
I was up by five a.m.,
at the store by eight, opting to walk
through Somerville and Cambridge
to arrive in Back Bay energized
and ready to destroy. We were
a twelve-fisted wrecking crew,
us Hallmarkian Divas dressed
in our most casual slaughterwear.
With boxes and hammers and our very own
dusty voices, we sang and laughed
and violated the remains of our gutted
store: once the place we came
to work, now a carcass, picked
at, sucked clean, with a trail
of glitter leading to the high-
noon sun, leaving us, sunk
into the bowel of what was once
a body of glory, impenetrable
Tearing Down II
Everyone cried except for me.
I stood, dry-eyed, dry-souled,
and waited for them to dab
each other’s faces while I leaned
against the door. I wanted to laugh.
I wanted to sing. I wanted this day
to be fun, and it was. Bare-
armed, I threw shelves and glass
and yellow backdrops into the dumpster
dubbed us “The Girls of Refuse”
and littered the air with stories
about my old job. I don’t know
why I didn’t care as much
as the others about the dismantling
of a twenty-three-year-old homestead,
but I do know that I’m going to add
doesn’t do construction to my resume
Suppose (poem)
you bow your head
and listen while I say
I love you,
not a confession
but a stabilizing truth.
You know the words
before I speak them,
I think, and you feel them
like my dry, desperate
hands on your own.
Your reply is simple,
silent, but real
as you lift your head,
square my gaze,
and I am stunned
and listen while I say
I love you,
not a confession
but a stabilizing truth.
You know the words
before I speak them,
I think, and you feel them
like my dry, desperate
hands on your own.
Your reply is simple,
silent, but real
as you lift your head,
square my gaze,
and I am stunned
Some Days are Like This (poem)
I am guy-gutted today,
slaughtered by my own unwillingness
to settle, to let go, to roll over
for any master. And I am sun-tired
today, soaked in rays that shine
my skin and bake me back to the girl
I always wanted to be: glowing.
Between the spooning of my innards
into a deep, yellow bowl
and the browning of my skin
in the patient day, like light,
I am somehow perfect
and defeated. I’m losing
myself inside and out,
but life still loves what’s left
enough to bleach the hairs
on my arm until they are golden
slaughtered by my own unwillingness
to settle, to let go, to roll over
for any master. And I am sun-tired
today, soaked in rays that shine
my skin and bake me back to the girl
I always wanted to be: glowing.
Between the spooning of my innards
into a deep, yellow bowl
and the browning of my skin
in the patient day, like light,
I am somehow perfect
and defeated. I’m losing
myself inside and out,
but life still loves what’s left
enough to bleach the hairs
on my arm until they are golden
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)